


Causa Mortis

by fluttermoth



Series: Causa Mortis [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Dark Comedy, Fantasy, Love Triangles, Multi, Murder, Open Relationships, Psychopaths In Love, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 49
Words: 314,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluttermoth/pseuds/fluttermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While avoiding her so-called destiny as the Dragonborn, Lumen falls in with the Dark Brotherhood. Life as an assassin suits her well, but everything changes when Cicero and the Night Mother appear. (Will loosely follow the Dark Brotherhood and Main story lines with some original additions. Listener/Cicero pairing. Rated M for sound reasons.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Chance Encounter

Lumen _hates_ Skyrim.

She hates the icy winds that nip at her formerly sun-kissed skin. If it isn't snowing, it's raining; and if it isn't raining, it's overcast. Sometimes Lumen can enjoy a rare day of clear skies and sunshine, but there is always a chill on the breeze, promising a cold, bitter night.

Dragons. Oh, she hates the dragons too. Lumen can't swing a dead skeever without hitting a dragon, and her life has been turned upside down ever since she killed one and absorbed its soul. Now she is Dovahkiin, a legendary hero, a legendary dragon slayer–

It’s a legendary pain in the ass.

Lumen doesn't hate the power of the Thu'um, it has proven to be a useful and amusing weapon at times. The problem is Delphine and her rampant paranoia. Not that Lumen has anything against paranoia; being paranoid has kept her alive. But Delphine has turned it into an art.

Delphine is currently in Riverwood, waiting for Lumen to arrive so they can discuss some half-cocked plan to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy. But Lumen has absolutely no desire to tangle with the Thalmor, they are as much a danger to her as they are to Delphine. There’s no way Lumen is going to throw herself head-first into danger without a damn good reason, and assuaging Delphine’s fears is not a good reason at all. Delphine can find someone else to do her dirty work. To the Void with Delphine and to the Void with the Thalmor.

To the Void with Skyrim.

* * *

Lumen travels down a winding dirt road, her black horse trotting along beside her. It’s an unusually warm day in The Pale, and there is hardly a chill on the gentle breeze. Pleasure coils through her as the sun warms her skin. It almost feels like she’s back home in Cyrodiil. Lumen knows there is no reason to indulge in idle fantasy, but she can’t help herself. She presses her hand against the side of her horse for balance and she closes her eyes. The air smells of mountain flowers and wheat, and _there_ a hint of lavender on the breeze--

\--and she is _home_.

In her mind she can see it all so clearly; fields of rich, green grass, buzzing with insects and all manner of small game. Beyond the fields a lush forest with trees that grow tall and thick, with sunlight streaming through the canopy and dappling the forest floor with flecks of gold, and if she concentrates she can still hear the crunch of leaves underneath her soft, booted feet--

"Augh! Bother and befuddle. Stuck here! _Stuck_! My mother, my _poor_ mother. Unmoving. At rest. But _too still_!"

Lumen stumbles to a stop, momentarily stunned by the shrill voice that pulls her from her reverie. The discordant shrieking has her horse nervously pawing at the ground, and Lumen pats the stallion’s neck in an attempt to soothe him. It doesn’t take long for Lumen to discover the source of the noise; standing in the middle of the road is a short Imperial dressed in a red and black jester motley. She has not seen a jester since she lived in Cyrodiil and she wonders what a jester would be doing in Skyrim. The stoic Nords don’t seem like the type to laugh at a jester's antics.

Said jester is ranting and raving like a lunatic as he storms around a wagon with a large crate strapped to it. Kicking pebbles across the dirt road and muttering under his breath, before apologizing to the crate for his foul language and bad behavior. It is an _interesting_ sight to say the least. Much too interesting to ignore.

As usual, Lumen’s insatiable curiosity gets the better of her, and she cautiously approaches the jester. “Is there a problem here?” she asks, even though she can clearly see the man’s wagon is broken. She doubts a broken wagon is the only problem the strange, little man has.

"Poor Cicero is stuck," he tells her, looking utterly dejected. "I was transporting my dear, _sweet_ mother. Well– not _her_. Her corpse! She's quite dead– Been dead for a while, actually." He cackles, the harsh sound lashing through the air like a whip.

"Uh, why are you dragging your dead mother across Skyrim?" Lumen asks. Tactless, perhaps, but it seems like a valid question.

Cicero narrows his eyes at her, a flicker of annoyance behind his glare. "Because I'm taking my mother to a new home. A new crypt. A new Sanctuary. But–" Cicero's attention is drawn back to the broken wheel lying on the ground near the wagon. "The damn wagon wheel broke!”

“I see that…” she makes a show of inspecting the wagon wheel, even though she knows nothing about fixing wagons. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Lumen doesn’t feel any genuine pity for Cicero’s predicament, but if gold were to exchange hands, she would gladly help the man out. Despite his clothes being a little dirty, they are well made. Perhaps he’d been a successful jester and is wealthy as a result? Or maybe his dead mother left him an inheritance? Either way, if he’s got the coin, then she’s got the time.

"Oh." He seems surprised at her offer of help. "Oh _yes_! Yes, the kind Bosmer can certainly help! Go to that farm–” he makes a show of pointing to the farm, while he bounces on the balls of his feet.. “It’s just over there, off the road. Do you see it? Do you?”

“Yes, I see it,” she says irritably. “It’s hard to miss. That windmill is pretty big.”

“It _is_ , isn’t it? Perhaps the stupid, rude, unhelpful farmer is compensating for something?” Cicero cackles. “Anyway, go talk to Loreius. He has tools! He can help me! But he won't! He refuses! Convince him to fix my wheel and Cicero will _reward_ you. With coin! _Gleamy_ , shiny coin!"

Now _those_ are the magic words. "How much coin are we talking about?" she asks.

"Would two hundred gold be enough to convince _you_ to help poor Cicero?" he asks, rocking back-and-forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. He almost looks innocent aside from the sly grin upon his small, bow-shaped lips and the keen, predatory sharpness in his eyes.

"As a matter of fact, it would."

"Cicero will gladly pay the kindly stranger, but only _after_ Loreius has fixed my wheel."

Lumen frowns. “But that could take days!”

“Poor Cicero has been here for days!” he whines.

Oh, well. It’s not as if Lumen has anything better to do, and she could really use the money. “All right I--” her words falter at the bizarre sight before her. Within moments of her consent to help him, Cicero turns from her and practically bounces toward the broken wagon. Stranger still is the fact that he's speaking to the crate strapped upon it in soft, soothing tones as he gently caresses it, as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.

"Did you hear that, Mother? The kind Bosmer is going to convince Loreius to help us. We'll be on our way soon and you'll finally have a new home, and a new family."

" _Right_. I'll, uh, just go talk to the farmer now," Lumen stammers as she makes her way up the small hill towards the farm. 

She is no stranger to oddities, and she indulges in some rather strange hobbies of her own, but she doesn’t speak to dead bodies with such reverence. Not like Cicero does. Perhaps the man is Void-touched or on skooma... He is very strange. Not that Lumen is normal. She doesn't indulge in cannibalism as some Bosmer are known to do, but she _does_ enjoy the thrill of hunting both mer and man. While Lumen is content to slay anyone who threatens her life or stands in her way, she _savors_ killing Altmer.

She doesn’t _hate_ Altmer. Her need to kill them is stronger than hatred – it is an addiction. A need to relive a specific moment in time, a moment where she felt more powerful than she ever had before. A moment that granted her a feeling more intense than anything she had ever known. Killing a dragon and absorbing its soul didn't come close to the high that killing an Altmer gave her.

So when Lumen's gaze falls upon her – the farmer's lovely, Altmer wife – it feels as if all the air has been stolen from her lungs. She balls her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms as barely repressed fantasies crawl up from the darkest corners of her mind.

Oh, it has been _so long_.

Images of naked, honeyed flesh take over her thoughts. Wide, fearful eyes and torrents of blood cascading over golden skin. Cacophonies of remembered screams fill her ears, drowning out the sound of chirping birds and buzzing insects, inciting a hum of adrenaline just beneath her skin. The sensation was akin to drinking a seedy potion, or spending a night with a skilled lover, but it was a feeling that was better when it was _relived_ rather than remembered.

"Miss? Miss, are you all right?"

Lumen's eyes snap open and the farmer's concerned face fills her vision, chasing away images of flesh and blood. She takes a deep, steadying breath, only now realizing that she is trembling. "Forgive me, sir, I– I am very tired,” she says, her voice wavering.

"Well now, is there anything I can help you with?" The farmer, Loreius, wipes the dirt from his hands, beckoning Lumen toward the farmhouse. "Why don't you come in and have a bite to eat? Curwe is an excellent cook and we always enjoy having company."

Lumen's empty stomach growls at the mention of food, and she is almost tempted to take him up on his offer, but the sight of Curwe standing on the porch stops her. "I can't! I mean– I need to be on my way shortly. But I came to speak with you on behalf of the, uh, little man with the wagon."

Loreius groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, for the love of Mara. That crazy fool has been up here five times already, and now he's conned you into coming up here and harassing us," he scowls at Lumen, though it's hardly intimidating to someone like her. She doubts the man could kill a chicken without collapsing into a fit of tears. "I'll tell you the same thing I told him; leave us alone!"

"Oh, come on. I'm sure he'll pay you." Lumen steps to the side, turning her back to his wife. It’s too difficult for her to concentrate on Loreius when there’s an Altmer so close by.

"Do you really think this is about money? The man is clearly insane and I highly doubt he's transporting his mother in that giant box. It's probably weapons or skooma. There's no way I'm getting involved. It's hard enough being an Imperial with an Altmer wife in this country, and the last thing I need is for us to be accused of aiding and abetting a war criminal."

Lumen laughs at that. "If he's a war criminal then I'm Ulfric Stormcloak."

"This isn't a joking matter! He could be dangerous! I have to think of my wife's safety," Loreius snaps.

"If you help him _he will leave_. Or would you rather he stay down there on the road for days on end?" Despite her exasperation with the farmer, Lumen almost laughs at him. The jester-- _dangerous_? What a ridiculous thought! Especially when the true danger to the famer’s wife is staring him right in the eyes.

“He’ll just have to walk to Whiterun and get a new wagon,” Loreius says, folding his arms. “He’s not my problem.”

“He’ll be your problem if he’s skulking around your farm while you and your wife are sleeping. If he’s as dangerous as you say, then he’ll have no qualms about killing you both in your sleep and stealing all you own,” Lumen says, barely able to suppress a grin at the alarmed look on the farmer’s face. “If you truly wish to keep your wife safe, then help the man and send him on his way.”

"I– I didn't think about it like that," Loreius says. "Damn it. I’ll go get my tools. Go tell him that I'll be down in just a few minutes, okay?"

Lumen wonders why the farmer had been unable to come to that conclusion on his own, but she supposes it does not matter. What does matter is Curwe. Lumen wants nothing more than to take– to kill–

Or to put as much space between Curwe and herself as she possibly can.

"I'll let him know," she says quickly, and she turns away from the farmer and strides down the hill. Moving quickly and purposefully _away_ from Curwe. Lumen is surprisingly relieved when Cicero comes into view, at least his presence does not inspire violent fantasies.

"Poor Mother…" Cicero whimpers. "Her new home seems so _very_ far away.” His forehead is pressed against the crate and his eyes shut tight, looking like he might cry at any second.

Lumen watches him for a moment, not sure what to make of the strange, little man. One minute he's capering around and the next he's near tears. She is truly mystified by him. "Um, Cicero?" She taps his shoulder and the jester spins around so quickly he sends his hat askew.

"Yes? Did the kind elfie have any luck?" He adjusts his hat, a smile lighting up his formerly morose face.

Lumen frowns at the nickname. "Yeah, Loreius said he'd be down here in a few minutes."

"Oh thank you! You have made Cicero so happy! So jubilant and ecstatic! But _more_! Even more! My mother thanks you!"

"Ah–" Lumen's gaze slides from Cicero, who is so happy he's dancing, to the large crate that houses the corpse of Cicero's mother. A change of subject is definitely in order. Anything to pull the subject of conversation away from Cicero's dead mother. "My name is Lumen, by the way."

He ceases his cavorting and turns to face Lumen. "And I am Cicero, The Fool of Hearts!” He dips into a graceful bow; one foot sliding behind him and his arms spread wide. “Forgive this humble fool for not introducing himself previously. Cicero was very upset and he forgot his manners.”

"Don’t worry about it," Lumen says, unable to stop herself from smiling at his flamboyant manner. She looks up from Cicero's bowed form after catching a glimpse of movement at the top of the hill. "Hey, it looks like Loreius is finally on his way.”

The jester stands up quickly, spinning on his heel and greeting the farmer as he nears the wagon. Lumen leans against the broken wagon, taking a moment to rest as the farmer contends with a very excited, and a very grateful Cicero. But her respite is short-lived when she notices Loreius’ wife walking down the hill. Panic washes over her as she begins to tremble again. This is bad, and this is exactly what she gets for waiting so long between kills. 

Lumen quickly crosses the dirt road and approaches a rocky outcrop jutting from the earth. She climbs on top of it, purposely facing away from the farmer and his wife. Distantly, she can hear the farmer apologizing to Cicero for making him wait so long. Desperate for a distraction, Lumen tries to focus on their conversation rather than Curwe and her beautiful, _fragile_ neck...

"Mind if I join you?"

Lumen stiffens at the sound of that voice. She had been so wrapped up in ignoring Curwe she did not hear her approach. Slowly, she turns her head and glances down at the Altmer who is smiling up at her. Gods, she's lovely. Skin the color of molten gold, hair like a field of wheat on a sunny day, and those eyes. Altmer have the most beautiful eyes.

"Shit," Lumen thinks, and after staring at Curwe for a moment too long, she says, "N– not at all."

“My husband said you seem a bit road-weary,” Curwe says as she pulls herself up on the rock and sits upon the edge. She places a linen-wrapped package and a full waterskin between them. “I know it isn’t much, but I hope this helps.”

"Oh, um, thank you. That's very kind of you," Lumen lowers her head so that her hair falls in front of her eyes. She does not want Curwe to notice how terribly nervous she is, and she doesn't want to look at her for fear of losing her self-control. Curwe's smile is so lovely, and her voice is so soft and sweet. Lumen wonders what it might take to make her scream--

"You're welcome," Curwe says. "So where are you traveling to?"

Lumen nervously tugs on a tuft of hair, twisting it tightly around her finger. "Windhelm."

The Altmer makes a soft, amused sound. "I have not been there, but I've heard rumor of how poorly the Dunmer are treated in Windhelm. I doubt a Bosmer can expect to be treated any better. You should watch yourself while you are there."

Lumen peers at Curwe. "I don't expect to be there long, but I thank you for the warning."

Curwe nods and gracefully descends the rock, her feet softly hitting the ground below. Lumen takes a deep, calming breath and buries her face in her hands. She tries to focus on the cool breeze twisting through her hair, and the songbirds singing overhead. _Anything_ and everything but Curwe. Still, Lumen's thoughts keep wandering back to her. The need to kill is at the forefront of her mind, commanding all of her attention. She shifts uncomfortably, trying to think of anything but Altmer, blood, and death.

"Is something wrong? You're… _fidgeting_."

Lumen looks to Cicero. His arms are folded upon the rock, and his expression is one of suspicion more so than concern. Lumen is– _well_ , she is annoyed. She didn’t even hear him approach and she internally chastises herself for dropping her guard, not once, but twice! She really, _really_ needs to kill someone... And soon. But in the meantime, she stares at Cicero. What is she supposed to say? That she is daydreaming about making that beautiful, kind, Altmer scream and beg for her life, and the thought is driving her mad?

She opens her mouth to respond – _to lie_ – no one else could understand her needs, most certainly not a merryman. But the words die in her throat as a heady, intoxicating sensation settles over her. Warm tendrils of energy skim across her body, through her hair, and past her skin to embrace her mind. Time seems to slow as this unseen force commands her full attention.

_"Be still, my child of darkness."_

She senses, rather than hears, the hissing feminine voice, and a feeling of tranquility floods through her tired body, soothing her frayed nerves and slowing her racing heart. She can swear she hears another voice somewhere beyond her buzzing mind, but it is drowned out. Inaudible and unimportant amongst the thrumming of this strange feeling that has taken control of her.  
And as quickly as the strange sensation came, it is gone, and only a feeling of calm remains.

"Lumen?" Cicero pushes himself up onto the rock, his brow furrowed as he stares into Lumen's eyes. “Are you still there?" He chuckles as he taps her forehead.

Lumen swats his hand away, too dazed from the blissful sensation to be annoyed with him. "What is it?"

"Cicero just wanted to give kind, helpful Lumen her payment! Two hundred gold, as promised." Cicero eyes her curiously, as if he suspects something is wrong. If he does, he does not say so. Instead, he drops a large purse of gold into Lumen's open hands.

 _Finally_.

* * *

Lumen flops face-first onto her straw bed and groans as she rolls onto her side. Her body is sore after riding all night to Windhelm. She didn't bother to stop and set camp as the thought of shivering in front of a meager camp fire did not seem worth the trouble. So she pressed on, vowing not to rest until she had reached her destination. The journey had been cold and relatively uneventful. There were a few wolves and bandits along the road, but they were easily dispatched, and easily outran when she became too weary to fight.

Sleep comes easy for Lumen. Her bed at Candlehearth Hall is warm and soft, the mead in her belly and the lingering effects of that strange voice lull her into a deep slumber. But as her dreams come, they are of blood and death. The desire to kill can never be silenced for long, and it is only a matter of time before it dominates her thoughts.

Lumen will have to hunt soon.


	2. Innocence Lost

Windhelm feels like a large prison cell with its tall, oppressive stonework walls and buildings. The sky overhead is full of grey clouds, thick with snow and blotting out the endless heavens that exist beyond. The wind sends tiny flurries of snow whirling and dancing through the streets, and despite Lumen's desire to leave this dismal city as soon as possible, she considers going back to the inn and curling up under a pile of furs. But she can't. She is looking for someone, and as soon as she finds him she can leave this wretched place behind her.

Weeks ago she heard a rumor of a child who is attempting to contact the Dark Brotherhood. It is unknown to her if Aventus Aretino had managed to capture the Dark Brotherhood's attention, but he certainly had hers.

Hiding in the shadow of a crumbling stone wall, Lumen watches a Dunmer woman usher a curious, young boy away from the Aretino residence. She remains perfectly still and silent as they leave, lingering in her hiding spot for a while longer as a pair of guards pass by. As she waits her mind begins to wander back to the strange jester she met on the road, and most notably – the strange voice she heard. Despite many nights of replaying the moment in her mind, Lumen is unable to come up with a satisfactory explanation for the strange experience. Most troubling of all is not that a mysterious voice spoke inside Lumen's mind, but it was the fact that she so dearly _missed_ that voice. She longed to experience it again; the sound, the sensation, the warmth. Never had she felt so comforted and _so calm_ , like she had finally come home after a long journey.

Lumen shoves the distracting thoughts from her mind; she will have plenty of time to think about the jester and the voice _after_ she investigates the Aretino home.

Once the street is clear she steps out of the shadows and toward the front door of the house, which is unlocked. The rusty hinges groan as she opens the door just enough to slip inside. She gently pushes the door shut and the snap of the latch is almost thunderous in the relative silence of the run-down house. But as Lumen climbs the stairs, it is clear the house is not as quiet or as empty as she initially thought. Her pointed ears twitch when she hears _it_ – a child's voice – tinged with desperation and accompanied by a steady thumping sound, as if someone were striking a plank of wood with something hard and metallic.

"Sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."

Lumen inches across the aged, wood floor and close to the voice. She wonders if this how one calls the Dark Brotherhood. How on Nirn could they possibly know? Was there someone who was actually able to _hear_ this prayer or did they operate on rumors alone? She has only heard tales of the infamous group of assassins, but she knows very little about them and how they operate.

A flicker of candlelight draws Lumen's eyes toward a small alcove and despite the rumors she has heard, the sight before her still comes as a surprise; a small boy, no older than ten, hunched over a skeleton and encircled by candles. Crumpled nightshade petals are scattered across the floor, barely masking the scent of decay coming from the human heart and flesh. The child is stabbing the effigy with a dagger – the tip of the dagger boring deeper into the wood beneath the skeleton which each strike.

"Please," he sniffs, "How long must I do this? I keep praying Night Mother. Why– why won't you answer me?" He pleads in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

Lumen stands from her crouched position, purposely stepping on a squeaky floorboard and clearing her throat to get his attention.

The child looks up at her and a wide smile spreads across his dirty face. "Finally! My prayers have been answered!" He gets to his feet, tossing the dagger aside as he stumbles toward Lumen. "It worked! I was starting to think I was doing the Black Sacrament _wrong_. But it worked and you're finally here!" He takes a deep breath, exhaustion and hunger quelling his childlike enthusiasm and leaving him breathless. "I can't believe it! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood!"

 _Oh_. This is not the reaction Lumen expects from Aventus. In fact, she didn't know what she expected when she crept into his home. Nor did she know what possessed her to grab his attention in the first place. She came here for no other reason than to sate her curiosity and _leave_. But now–

She cannot move – she is stuck – trapped by the child's hopeful gaze and compelled to stay. She knows she should tell him the truth; that she is not a member of the Dark Brotherhood, just a nosy elf. But she cannot. She _must_ know who the child wants killed and _why_. "Uh, Right. So, who do I kill?" she asks, and internally curses at herself for sounding so uncertain.

Aventus doesn't notice her question. "It took so long. So very long…" he sways and Lumen leads him to the small bed in the corner of the room, motioning for him to sit down.

"Come on, kid. Just tell me who needs to die," Lumen keeps her voice level, but she is all too aware of the prickle of frustration that washes over her. She does not understand how to talk to children, who all seemingly have the attention span of a torchbug, but a child who is half-starved and exhausted is a new challenge for her limited patience.

"My mother died and I– I'm all alone now," he wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his filthy, threadbare shirt. "So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. _Honorhall_. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the Kind, but she's not kind. She's _terrible_ and I want her dead. I want you to kill her." Aventus gazes up at Lumen and she realizes how weary he looks. The layer of dirt on his face does little to hide the black circles under his eyes and only amplifies the hollow of his sunk-in cheeks.

"I have a few questions," she says and Aventus sits quietly, waiting for her to continue. "When did you begin the Black Sacrament?"

"Weeks ago I– I think. To be honest I stopped counting the days after a while."

"Am I the first person to contact you?" she asks, and the boy nods. Lumen wonders if the Black Sacrament works at all. Surely someone from the Brotherhood would have been here by now if it did. Perhaps they wouldn't take a contract from a child? She doubts the boy has anything of value to give, but surely an assassin could appreciate his tenacity – she did, anyway.

"That's a long time to wait. Why didn't you kill Grelod yourself?" Lumen asks, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Aventus glances away. "Because I'm– I'm afraid of her."

"Tell me why."

Aventus wraps his arms around himself, a far-off look in his eyes. "She beats us. She bloodied Hroar's face real bad once. And she– she locked Runa in– in _the room_. The room with the shackles. And–"

"And?"

"We get lashings if we talk about our parents." The boy lifts his shirt, turning his back to Lumen, and before she can ask him what he is doing her gaze falls upon the bare skin of his back, which is marred by crisscrossing welts, some of which are showing the first signs of infection. "I– I couldn't help it. I just miss my mother _so_ much," His tired voice trails off into a sob.

Empathy has never been one of Lumen's strong points, and even now she doesn't feel a twinge of pity for the child. But she can certainly understand the gravity of the child's loss and rage. A rage that fueled his overtired and underfed body to continue with the Black Sacrament until an assassin or death itself came for him. It does not take long for Lumen to reach a decision – she will kill Grelod for the child. It was clear that the Dark Brotherhood had no interest in this contract or they did not know about it, or as some believe, they no longer exist. There is little she can offer the boy to ease his pain, there is no sympathy in her heart and no desire to dry his tears. But she can give him the death that he calls for.

Lumen pulls the last of her rations from her pack; a few strips of dried meat and a half-eaten loaf of bread. She places the food in the boy's hands and almost smiles at his bewildered expression. "Eat," she demands, "when I return with news of Grelod's death, I want you to be alive."

* * *

The Riften market is bustling with people; merchants peddling their wares or haggling with prospective customers, and cautious mothers hanging on to their children so they don't get lost within the crowd. There are displays of baubles, armor, weapons and there's even a man selling suspicious looking elixirs claiming they will grant the buyer _"The stamina of a dragon!"_ Lumen is momentarily overwhelmed by the colors, the noise, and the smells of the market. She _loves_ Riften. The city is so _alive_ compared to Windhelm and she almost forgets why she is there – that is, until she pushes her way through the crowded market and Honorhall finally comes into view.

As distracting and lively as the market is, it's not nearly as distracting as the nervous fluttering in her abdomen. It is terribly frustrating. Lumen is never nervous before a kill. But this is a new experience for her; she has never killed at the behest of someone else before, and while she would prefer to take her time with Grelod, she reminds herself that this will have to be a quick, clean kill. She will have to be subtle and not allow the thrill to get in the way, as it so often did.

Lumen takes a deep breath, clearing her mind of all her anxious thoughts, and as she exits the market circle she begins to plan her attack. She will walk in and ask Grelod about adopting a child; surely they will have to go somewhere private to discuss such a thing. Once they are alone, Lumen will end Grelod's miserable life. This will be easy, or so she thinks, but as she opens the door to Honorhall she is greeted by a nervous-looking Imperial woman... Who promptly throws her out.

"Get out of here!" She hisses under her breath, "Grelod doesn't like visitors."

"But I wanted–"

"None of the children are available for adoption."

"But–"

The door to the orphanage slams shut before Lumen can finish, leaving her completely perplexed. Why would the old woman not allow the kids to the adopted? It was obvious that Grelod disliked and mistreated the children in her care. So why would she want to keep them around? It didn't make any sense. Unless–

Unless Lumen was turned away because she is an elf. _Damn_. This is certainly an unexpected complication.

Annoyed and confused, Lumen turns away from the orphanage and makes her way through the market circle once again. The previously distracting market blurs around her, a swirl of colors and indistinct noise not worthy of attention now that her mind is focused on a new plan. Lumen skirts around a pair of arguing merchants and just barely avoids running into a very ruffled-looking noblewoman, before she _finally_ manages to break away from the crush of people and escape into the relative calm of The Bee and Barb. Once inside, Lumen strides toward the bar and slides onto a stool. She needs to _think_ and to do that she needs–

"Mead, please," she says, resting her elbows on the bar and trying not to sound as frustrated as she felt.

The Argonian innkeeper sets the mead down in front of her with a smile. Well– Lumen thinks it's a smile. Argonian and Khajiit facial expressions are always difficult for her to read. "Anything else?" the inkeeper asks.

"No– Wait! Yes..." Lumen quiets her stammering by taking a drink of mead, wincing as the alcohol burns its way down her throat, "I was wondering– have you noticed anything strange about the orphanage?"

"Strange?" she asks with a laugh, "it is an orphanage like any other."

"Do any of the children ever get adopted?"

The Argonian tilts her head. "I don't know. Sorry, it's not something I ever paid much attention to. Why? You lookin' to adopt?"

"I'm just curious. That's all," Lumen says as she looks away from the Argonian's curious stare.

There is movement on her right and Lumen quickly turns her head to find herself face-to-face with a pretty Nord woman. She moved too quickly and silently for Lumen's comfort, and she leans away from the woman with her hand placed protectively on the coin purse hanging at her hip. To Lumen's surprise, the woman laughs at her.

"I'm not going to rob you in the middle of a pub, elf," the woman grins at her and nods at the innkeeper, "mead, Keerava."

Keerava places a fresh tankard of mead on the counter. "Ah, Sapphire. I was wondering when you'd stop loitering by the door and actually purchase something," she punctuates her remark by quickly snatching the gold from Sapphire's hand, as if it would vanish if she dallied.

"I was busy," Sapphire says flippantly and turns back to Lumen. "You got a name, elf?"

"My name is Lumen," she says, not bothering her mask her annoyance at being called 'elf'.

"Huh, weird. So– I heard you asking Keerava about the orphanage?"

"I was," Lumen answers slowly.

"I wouldn't bother trying to adopt a kid from there," Sapphire pauses to take a drink from her tankard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand afterwards. "I once saw Grelod turn away a Dunmer couple – the Llaniths. I don't think Grelod likes elves."

A handsome Imperial man approaches the bar and leans on the counter to Lumen's left. "That's an interesting theory – but you're way off, Saffy," He rests his chin on his hand, grinning smugly at Sapphire.

"I hate it when you call me that," comes Sapphire's clipped reply, "and I don't recall asking for your opinion anyway."

Undeterred, the man continues, "I hear Grelod won't do adoptions at all," he pauses, glancing at the three women as if to confirm that he has their attention. "I hear she's _selling_ the kids."

"Oh for Mara's sake! What a load of hogwash, Marcurio!" Keerava slaps the counter and shoots a glare at the mage.

"I'm serious!"

"That's not a bad idea, what's wrong with trying to recoup the cost of taking care of the kids?" asks Sapphire.

The easy smile vanishes from Marcurio's face. "She's not selling them to families. She's selling them for cheap labor."

Keerava sighs. "Marcurio, I'll not have to spreading such ridiculous rumors in _my_ inn."

"But I heard it in _your_ inn."

Lumen pushes away from the suddenly crowded bar, leaving the three gossips to their conversation – a conversation that has given her much to think about. With her mead in hand, she crosses the sparsely populated inn and seats herself at an empty table. She knows rumors spread through Skyrim like wildfire and that the vast majority were to be taken with a grain of salt, but–

Rumors lead her to Aventus.

* * *

The sun dips below the horizon and night washes over Riften. Another brilliant sunset is soon replaced by a sea of glittering stars as the crescent moons begin their journey across the heavens. Lumen walks along the wooden paths toward Honorhall, careful to tread softly across the creaking planks and crouching in the shadows to avoid detection. Approaching the orphanage unnoticed is not as easy at night as it is during the day. There is no bustling market to divert the attention of the guards or random passersby, and a lone figure creeping up on the orphanage in the middle of the night is certain to attract unwanted attention.

A guard walks by where Lumen is hiding, unaware that he is being watched as he makes his nightly rounds. When he is finally at an acceptable distance she darts toward the orphanage and raps on the door. By her count, she has exactly two minutes before another guard patrol passes by and she hopes she will have plenty of time to persuade her way inside. The last thing she needs is to be questioned by a guard.

The door opens and the fidgety Imperial woman who answered it before stands in the doorway. "What do you want?" she hisses, scowling at Lumen.

"I want to make a purchase, now let me in," Lumen says with more confidence than she feels.

The woman glowers at Lumen before finally stepping aside. "I'll get Grelod," she mutters as she walks out of the foyer, throwing a glare over her shoulder at Lumen before she disappears around a corner.

Lumen frowns as well, not at the Imperial woman, but at the horrible smell. The scent of urine and spoiled food mingle in the too-thick air and assault Lumen's sensitive nose. As much as she would like to draw out Grelod's death, the horrid stench of this place provides a sense of urgency Lumen had not felt previously. She wants nothing more than to kill Grelod and _leave_ before the pungent reek of what she can only describe as despair seeps into her leather armor.

Grelod enters the room with her head held high and a permanent scowl etched upon her face, the scowl deepens as she looks Lumen up-and-down. "Don't normally sell to your kind," she says with thinly veiled contempt, "but I s'pose elf money is as good as any."

"Oh, _good_. I was starting to fear a Septim lost its value once it touched my filthy, elven hands," Lumen says, her voice laced with sarcasm.

The old woman narrows her eyes at Lumen. "Don't get smart with me, _elf._ Or I'll box your pointy ears."

Lumen hums her acknowledgement of Grelod's threat, but makes no attempt to even pretend as if she is afraid of the old woman. "So who was the woman who answered the door? She seemed quite upset."

"That would be Constance. She doesn't approve of how I treat the brats or how I get rid of 'em."

"A pity. Good help is so hard to find these days," Lumen says, looking Grelod over. She almost feels guilty. Killing a feeble, old woman will be too easy.

"Enough!" Grelod snaps. "Who sent you?"

"We have a mutual acquaintance," Lumen tells her.

"I don't have time for games, elf. Give me a name or get out."

The corners of Lumen's mouth twitch upward, "Aventus Aretino."

Grelod scoffs. "I had hoped the little bastard died of exposure after he ran away," she turns from Lumen to straighten a stack of books on a nearby table. "So what do you want? I don't have all night."

"This really isn't about what I want," Lumen replies casually, stepping closer to Grelod.

"Then what–" before Grelod can finish, Lumen grabs her by her shoulders and spins her around, slamming her back against the wall. Lumen's hands move; one clamping around the old woman's throat and the other pressed over her mouth to keep her quiet.

"I've been hired by Aventus Aretino to kill you," Lumen smiles cruelly at Grelod as the old woman's eyes widen in shock and she begins to struggle, but she is immediately subdued as Lumen tightens her grip around her neck. "Surprised? You shouldn't be. Not after what you did to that boy."

Lumen yanks Grelod away from the wall and moves behind her as she draws her dagger. She presses herself against Grelod's back, her hand clasped tightly over the old woman's mouth as she presses her dagger against Grelod's throat. "This will be messy," she whispers in Grelod's ear. "Good thing you won't have to clean it up," Lumen doesn't give the old woman a chance to respond or fight back, and she quickly drags the razor-sharp blade across Grelod's throat. The thin, aged flesh splits apart with little resistance and blood pours from the wound, splattering on the floor and filling the room with a metallic odor.

The heavy scent of blood and the alluring sight of it sends Lumen's heart racing, her arms shake with exhaustion and excitement as she lowers Grelod's limp body to her knees before letting go. The old woman falls forward into a rapidly expanding pool of blood while Lumen hastily cleans her dagger with the hem of Grelod's dress. She sheathes her weapon and darts toward the door when she hears movement in the adjacent room.

Emboldened by the giddy thrill of death and the scent of blood in her nostrils, Lumen runs across the planked walkways of Riften, not caring if she draws attention to herself. The guards and other denizens of the Riften night are not concerned with a fleeing Bosmer, assuming they saw her at all. Even if they did, they would soon forget her as a blood-curdling scream peals through the night air. _"Constance,"_ Lumen thinks, and the guards run toward Honorhall as Lumen reaches the gates.

The gates open and Lumen flees into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I embellished Grelod a little bit. She was nasty in-game but I couldn't fight the temptation to add to her nastiness!


	3. With Friends Like These

Lumen is sure she's been in situations more awkward than _this_ , but she can't recall them. Not when Aventus Aretino is clinging to her like a barnacle, with his tiny arms around her waist, squeezing as hard as he can. While she certainly expected he would be pleased with the news of Grelod's death, she did not anticipate such an enthusiastic reaction.

"Thank you," he sobs, "Thank you so much."

"You're- uh, welcome." Her voice is stiff and her skin is crawling in discomfort from the unwanted affection.

An age seems to pass before Aventus finally pulls away from Lumen and she breathes a sigh of relief. The boy does not seem to notice and he turns away from her, although at the moment she does not know or care why. Her fingers swipe across the damp patch his tears left on her leather armor. Before she has the chance to be annoyed, Aventus returns to her side and thrusts a dusty, silver plate at her.

"I want you to have this." He says.

"Are you certain?" Lumen takes the plate from his hands and carefully inspects it. It is tarnished and dusty from lack of proper care, but the same could be said for everything in this house, including Aventus. Through the grime Lumen can see the plate is unmarred by scratches or nicks of any kind.

"My mother was always telling me how important it is, so it must be _really_ valuable. Besides, I don't need some old plate."

Lumen wants to tell him to keep it, but the eager look in the child's eyes makes it apparent that the useless object will be forced upon her in one way or another. So she tucks the plate safely under her arm, wondering how much she can get for it at Sadri's Used Wares.

"I think I'll go back- to Honorhall, I mean," Aventus says suddenly, "I miss my friends there."

"That is a wise decision." Lumen says as shifts her weight from foot to foot, eager to be on the road again. But she _has_ to know-

"How will you get there?"

"I'll walk, of course. I walked all the way from Riften when I came back home! I can do it again." Aventus rests his hands on his hips and smiles at her, obviously pleased with himself.

Lumen, however, is not pleased. For reasons unknown to her, she finds herself worrying about his well-being. _No_. Not worrying. She's being pragmatic, or so she tells herself. She did not kill for him just so he could find his death on the road. How he didn't die on his journey to Windhelm is a mystery, and surely the work of the Divines.

"Take the carriage this time," she says.

"I can't afford it." he shrugs, "I'll be fine. I know which road to take and everything."

"Take the carriage to Riften," Lumen says with a little more force. "I will handle the payment."

"You don't have to do that for me," he says timidly.

"I don't have to, but I choose to. I did not kill Grelod just so you can go die in the wilds," she snaps, her patience finally at an end.

Aventus knots his hands in his tattered shirt. "But-"

"I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the Riften if I have to," she warns.

"But I-" Aventus starts, but the glare Lumen casts at him seems to change his mind. "Y-yes ma'am," he mutters.

"You're not just telling me what I want to hear, are you?"

"No! I promise I'll take the carriage. Can- can I leave tomorrow? I need to pack, and they probably need time to clean the _mess_ , right?"

"Very well. I'll make the arrangements," she takes a breath, frustration slowly ebbing away.

The fact that the child knows better than to continue arguing with her is no small miracle, and Lumen is not fooled by his wan smile or his weak attempt at humor. She suspects that while Aventus is certainly appreciative of what she has done, he must harbor a healthy fear of her as well. His body language tells her more than his words ever will; the small half-step he takes away from her, his arms folded across his chest and the unmistakable look in his eyes.

He's afraid of her and it does not bother her in the slightest.

* * *

The walk across the large, stonework bridge toward the stables is bitterly cold as it offers little shelter from the frigid mountain winds. But Lumen barely notices the chill in the air. There is a greater worry weighing on her mind, and it grows heavier with each step toward the stables. The stable master is an Altmer, and while he may be the friendliest Altmer she has ever met, it does not diminish her desire to bleed him dry.

_He has done nothing to you_ , she reminds herself. _He does not deserve it_.

She keeps her eyes on the ground as she approaches the stables, and when the stable master comes to greet her she looks everywhere but his face, fearing she would no longer be able to control herself if she did. How easy it would be for her warped mind to twist that smiling mouth and those friendly eyes into something vicious and hateful.

Lumen thanks him for looking after her horse and drops a septim into his open hand. Her eyes are drawn to his long fingers as they gracefully curl around the coin and a wisp of a memory rises up from where she had buried it long ago. It is old and fractured, but sharp enough to cut through her feigned calm like a knife.

_"Give me your hand, girl."_

_She flinches at the tone of his voice, laced with anger and heavy with the promise of a punishment that will not be withheld. Fear spills over her, cold and sharp, and she is so crippled by her terror that she can scarcely lift her arm. And she knows - oh, how she knows - she will be punished tenfold for her insolence._

_He reaches for her, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist and holding her arm outstretched. He squeezes her wrist so hard she swears she can hear her bones creaking. "Do not defy me. Now- look at your hand and tell me what you see."_

_"I- I don't know-"_

_"Your nails," he snarls. "You've been biting them - a disgusting habit if there ever was one - and now they are unsightly." his long, perfectly manicured nails dig into the tender flesh of her wrist. "I will not have you gnawing on yourself like a starving dog."_

_"I won't do it again, I swear!"_

_"No. You won't," he says as his slender, golden fingers twist around the hilt of a knife._

_A glimmer of silver-_

_a cruel laugh-_

_the tip of a blade slipping beneath her fingernail-_

Lumen backs away from the stable master as if she has been struck, turning away from him so quickly that she loses her balance and stumbles into the side of her horse. She is not embarrassed by her clumsiness, not when the shadow of a painful memory is nipping at her heels. She climbs onto her horse and nudges him with her foot, urging him to move forward before she has righted herself in the saddle. Her gloved hands grip the reigns tightly, as if they are all that tether her to reality. She takes deep, calming breaths and reminds herself that she is no longer in Cyrodiil. She is in Skyrim and _he_ is not here.

Her stomach rolls at the mere thought of him, her fingertips throbbing with a phantom pain and she shakes her head to clear her mind of gauzy, half-formed memories and old fears. Somehow, sense has not left her completely and she still retains enough awareness and self-control to steer her horse toward the carriage by the road.

The driver is draped across the seat with his feet propped up on the footrest at the front of the wagon. He takes a drink from the small, silver flask in his hand and watches Lumen with interest.

"Can I help you, miss?"

"Just, ah- give me a moment." She brings her hand to her mouth and is certain she is going to be _sick_.

To her left she can hear the shuffle of cloth and the scrape of boots upon unpolished wood. She looks up to see the carriage driver leaning out of his seat and offering his flask. "Here, miss. Take a nip of this."

Without hesitation and against her better judgment, she takes the flask and downs a mouthful, sputtering and coughing when she harsh liquid hits her throat. The driver's soft chuckle floats to her ears and she hands the flask back to him, grateful for the calming warmth provided by the bitter alcohol, but disgusted by its flavor.

"Thank you, but- what _is_ that?" she asks.

"It's my own special blend, guaranteed to cure what ails you," he answers with a hint of pride in his voice.

"Well, no offense, but your special blend tastes like boiled draugr." Lumen rasps, her throat still burning from the strong alcohol.

"Maybe it is." The man laughs. "Now- is there anything I can help you with?"

"Yes, actually. I need to arrange a ride for someone."

The man stretches casually. "I don't normally schedule rides but-" he pauses, looking thoughtful. "I guess I can. For the right price, of course."

"Here." Lumen tosses a coin purse at him. The purse is heavy with gold she gained from selling the Aretino heirloom and she hopes it will be enough to convince the driver to take Aventus to Riften.

He catches the purse with practiced ease. "This is-" His brow furrows as he tests the weight of the purse. "Very well." he nods, clearly pleased with the amount. "Just tell me who, when and where."

"A little boy named Aventus will need a ride to Riften tomorrow."

"What time?"

"No idea."

The man snorts. "You expect me just to wait around all day for this kid?"

"I do."

"I-" he sighs heavily, his eyes darting to the coin purse in his hand and back to Lumen. "Fine. I'll take your kid-"

"His name is Aventus and he is not _my_ kid," she corrects.

"I'll take Aventus - who is not your kid - to Riften tomorrow," he says, sounding a little uncertain.

"Exactly." Lumen nods.

"Now, miss, if he's not your kid I don't feel right about cartin' him off. Where are his parents?"

"Dead." Her reply is more brusque than necessary. "He's going to the orphanage."

A look of understanding dawns on the man's face. " _Oh_. Poor lad. All right, I understand. I'll get him to Riften safe and sound."

"Thank you." Lumen nods to the man as a way of farewell. She tugs the reigns of her horse and heads west out of Windhelm with no clear destination in mind. She does not care where she goes as long as it is warm and relatively free of Altmer. It is easier to ignore her needs where there are no Altmer around to stir her desires or to wake the vengeful ghosts of memories long past.

* * *

A gentle breeze stirs the air, carrying with it the crisp smell of evergreen and snowberries. Ahead of her lies a vast expanse of freshly fallen snow, pure and unmarred by animal tracks. Sunbeams break through the soft, grey clouds and fall upon the snow as glittering trails of light. The tall mountains that bordered the path from Windhelm have now given way to soft, rolling hills with bountiful patches of small bushes and evergreen trees.

"It's pretty, isn't it boy?" Lumen pats her horse as he languidly walks along the snow covered path, "It's so _quiet."_ She pauses, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. "Too quiet, actually." Her voice drops to a low whisper as she tugs the reigns, stopping her horse. "Where are the birds?"

The answer to her question comes in the form of a roar that thunders across the once peaceful landscape, followed by an enormous shadow that blots out the sparse sunlight. The ground quakes as the dragon lands a few yards away from Lumen. Despite the distance between them she can feel the heat of its breath and smell the putrid scent of rotten meat caught between its teeth.

This is not the first dragon she's encountered, but it is the first time she's ever had to face one alone. In the past, she had always been close to a city or a camp and guards often came to her aid. The thought of fighting a dragon alone is nothing short of terrifying, but Lumen swallows her fear. She's the Dragonborn, albeit reluctantly, and she does not need a bunch of sweaty Nords to wear the beast down for her. Certainly she can kill it on her own.

With her fear temporarily conquered, Lumen slides from her horse, keeping her eyes focused on the dragon and not making any sudden movements. Her attempt to remain as calm as she possibly can is for naught, however, when the dragon lunges at her and snaps, its teeth a mere foot away from her face. Instinctively, Lumen sucks in a breath-

**_"FUS RO DAH!"_ **

Stunned, the dragon jerks backwards and Lumen has little time to prepare for what's to come. The dragon's ribcage expands as it draws in air, the force of its powerful inhalation tugging Lumen's hair forward and she dives to the ground just as a gout of flame rolls forth from the beasts mouth. The air trembles from the heat of the golden flames as they lap at her armor and threaten to roast her alive. The fire is dangerously close, and the intense light of the blaze momentarily overpowers her vision.

The flames finally gutter out and Lumen struggles to stand, her feet slipping in the mud created from the sudden melting of snow. She rubs at her eyes, trying to force her sight to clear and hoping the dragon's maw isn't about to close around her. Light and color begin to filter back to her and she is greeted by the sight of her horse galloping at full speed toward the dragon - rather than running away as any sensible creature would do - and in a matter of seconds her companion is engulfed in a torrent of flames.

"You stupid, scaly son of a-"

The dragons roar is loud enough to drown out the sound of Lumen's voice and she can swear the damn thing is _laughing_ at her.

Anger threatens to give way to fear as she looks at the charred remains of her horse. She knows that she may suffer the same fate but she will not allow this dragon to take her without a fight. With her heart hammering against her ribs, she draws her sword and despite her fear, she is ready to fend of teeth, flame and claw. The only thing Lumen does not anticipate is the dragon's tail; which comes whipping toward her at lightning speed. It slams into her with so much force it knocks the breath from her lungs and the sword from her hand. The world becomes a blur as she soars through the air and lands in a dead bush.

Dazed and breathless, Lumen struggles to untangle herself from the thatch of twigs. She cannot afford to lie there writhing in agony when a dragon is bearing down on her, but she is unable to rise with strands of her hair knotted around dead branches. There is no time to waste, she breaks the stiff branches and escapes the tangled mess of twigs only to realize she is without her weapon.

A flash of something metallic shimmers along the edge of her vision, momentarily pulling her attention away from the dragon. _Oh please let it be my sword_ , she silently pleads as she looks away from the dragon and toward the light source. But rather than finding her sword she sees three figures standing in the distance; two are dressed in shining gold armor and the third is in black robes. A wide grin spreads across her face when she recognizes them for what they are - _Thalmor_.

Lumen's gaze turns back to the dragon and she wonders how long the three elves have been standing there. They have made no move to help her and she doubts they plan to offer it at all, but soon they will have no choice. She takes off running toward them, pushing her tired and battered body to its limits as she forces her legs through the knee-deep snow. She stands no chance against the dragon on her own, but if she can distract the dragon with the Thalmor, she just might live to see another day.

"Halt!"

"Keep your distance!"

The guards are prepared to draw their weapons on Lumen, but their shouting has attracted the attention of the dragon and the Justiciar curses loudly when the dragon takes to the air. Spells form in the Justiciar's open palms; lightning in one and ice in the other, one guard fires arrows at the dragon as the other summons a bound sword.

Lumen reaches the group just as the Justiciar's lightning spells rip through the thin flesh of the dragon's wings and bring it crashing to the ground. Wounded and furious, the dragon snaps up the closest target - the archer - his pained scream becomes a wet gasp as the dragon crushes him between razor sharp teeth. Blood and viscera paint the snow in a deep shade of crimson as the dragon flings the body aside.

The remaining guard and the Justiciar continue to wear the dragon down, the guard slashing with his sword and the Justiciar throwing spells at it. Both are too distracted to notice Lumen kneeling beside their fallen comrade, her fingers sliding over blood-slicked armor and toward the tattered leather pouch on his belt. Most of the potions the guard has on him are as broken as he is, but Lumen's search turns up one intact health potion.

She pulls the stopper from the bottle with her teeth and spits it into the snow. With unsteady hands, she brings the vial to her lips, the blood-red liquid spills over her tongue and brings with it the taste of dirt and crushed mountain flowers. The restorative potion mends her tired, bruised body and when she is done she drops the spent bottle to the ground. Healed and somewhat whole again, her eyes flick to the broken body of the Altmer guard; he lies bloody and still, a look of horror etched on his face.

The dragon howls in pain, drawing Lumen's attention as it finally succumbs to its wounds and collapses in the snow. The corpse burns from the inside out, light flowing from its body and surrounding Lumen as its soul melds with her own. Her ears pop from the pressure of the intense wind that swirls around her and _inside_ of her. The hair on her arms stands on end as the raw power enters her body, bringing with it alien thoughts and voices whispering to her in an ancient language.

The light fades and all that is left is an eldritch buzzing beneath her skin and an intense, overpowering _need._ A need to dominate and destroy.

The two Altmer turn and stare at Lumen, the guard's expression is stony and unreadable but the Justiciar's face is twisted in rage. "You nearly got us killed, you little wretch!" he spits.

The guard looks to his superior. "Selanor, sir, what shall we-"

"Kill her, Ardon, and let's be done with this."

Ardon is well trained - exceptionally trained, really - and _fast_. But he is no match for Lumen's bloodlust - she has waited too long for this. She pulls the spare dagger from her boot, leaping toward Ardon and driving the blade into his throat before he has a chance to counter her unexpected attack. Hot blood spills from the wound, coating Lumen's hand, and she bites her lip hard enough to pierce the flesh at the sight of it. Ardon's choked scream splinters the air and as Lumen pulls the blade from his throat, a lightning spell slams into her and sends her crashing to the ground. She cries out and thrashes on the ground as hot, electric pain tears through her body.

"It looks like I will be the one to put you down," Selanor growls as he stalks toward her.

The sharp scent of ozone lingers in the air as the pain fades but the need to kill is stronger than ever, heightened by the electric tingle the lightning spell left behind. Lumen's eyes focus on the Justiciar as he stands over her prone form with his glass dagger held aloft, ready to strike. Lightning crawls from his fingertips, traveling up his arms and vanishing into the air, uncontrolled and wild like his rage. But she does not fear, not with a newly-taken dragon soul urging her to kill-

And not when the painful memories of the life she left behind are still so fresh in her mind.

Selanor's long hair drapes around his face as he looms over her. His hair is as white as the freshly fallen snow, made whiter against the black of his robes and Lumen realizes how much the Justiciar looks like _him -_ like the Altmer that twisted her into what she is today.

That concession tears a furious scream from her throat, which throws Selanor off guard long enough for Lumen to land a well-placed kick between his legs. The robes offer little protection against her attack and he stumbles away from her, growling in pain. She is on her feet in seconds with her dagger clutched tightly in her hand.

"Killing you will be such a pleasure, Justiciar," she hisses as she cautiously steps closer to Selanor.

"Oh? Is that so?" he sneers, cowering in pain but with his glass dagger still held at the ready. "I'm afraid you won't have that pleasure _at all,_ you little savage."

Lumen laughs, although there is no true humor in it. "And what are you going to do with that knife? You're not even holding it right." It is a desperate attempt to shake his confidence, to convince him to look away from her just for a moment. But Selanor is not as easily distracted as Lumen hopes, and he summons another stream of lightning, sending it streaking through the air towards her.

She dodges the spell - which she had been expecting - and closes in on Selanor. Four steps is all it takes, and she is pushing the blade of her dagger between his ribs while another lightning spell dances across her skin, but it is weak, a faint whisper compared to the roar that his magic once was.

Selanor's face is a myriad of emotions. Surprise turns to anger, then horror as he looks down at the dagger embedded in his chest and back to the face of the Bosmer at the hilt, undoubtedly noticing the hunger in her eyes and the way her lips part at the sight of fresh blood, and the _feel_ of the blood - hot and wet - which now coats her hand. His dagger slips from his fingers and he falls to his knees, then onto his back in the snow. Lumen kneels beside him and watches as his lips move, spilling blood rather than words as his life slowly ebbs away.

Her thumb feathers across the curve of his high cheek bone."Thank you, Justiciar, for your help with the dragon." Her touch is gentle as she brushes stray strands of hair away from his face, an oddly intimate gesture given the violent nature of their short-lived relationship. "And thank you for _this_ ," her voice shakes, and in the wake of her now quieted need _,_ a feeling of calm arises _._

Lumen turns away from Selanor when his chest falls and does not rise again. She looks out at the field which was once a serene sea of white, now littered with corpses and stained with blood. Her mouth twists into a wry smile. Death and destruction seem to follow her wherever she goes - whether they are brought about by her own hand or not.

She is pulled from her thoughts by the sound of a boot crunching in the snow behind her, and before she can react, a hand holding a drug-soaked cloth closes over her nose and mouth. It is soaked in a solution that stings her eyes, burns her nose, and sends her head spinning. Her stomach jumps in fear. Had there been another Thalmor guard somewhere nearby? One she failed to see? Figures that he would wait until she had been weakened by his comrades before attacking her. _Typical_ , she thinks just before her mind begins to fog and panic fully grips her.

Lumen fights against her captor's strong hold, but her arms feel heavy and weak and she is suddenly _so tired_. Darkness clouds the edges of her vision and bleeds inward, blocking out sun and snow. Her head rolls backwards and before her world goes black, the last thing she sees is wild, white hair.

* * *

She wakes to the soft murmur of voices.

Lumen opens her eyes, the last whispers of the soporific potion lifting from her as she pushes herself into a sitting position. She pats herself down and is not surprised to find herself completely unarmed. But she is also unbound and unharmed, and for that she is grateful.

"Sleep well?" says a sultry feminine voice and Lumen's eyes are drawn to a woman dressed in black and red armor lounging on top of a cabinet. Her face is covered by a black cowl and the only features Lumen can see are a pair of piercing, blue eyes. The man with wild, white hair stands near her, and he is dressed in the same black and red armor.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Lumen asks, the words tumbling clumsily from her mouth.

"Does it matter? You're warm, dry and alive. The same cannot be said for the Thalmor Justiciar and his guards, though."

"I still want to know who you are," Lumen says with more confidence than she feels.

"My name is Astrid."

"And what do you want with me, Astrid?" Lumen asks, anxiety needling up her spine.

"I want to talk about Grelod The Kind," Astrid tells her.

"You- _what_? You mean- you're not Thalmor agents?"

"Of course not." The woman laughs and the man's scowl deepens, as if he is offended by the very idea.

"So- you know about Grelod?" she asks.

"Half of Skyrim knows about _that_. It isn't everyday that an old hag gets her throat split from ear-to-ear in her own orphanage. Things like that tend to get around." She laughs softly at the confused look on Lumen's face. "Oh, don't worry. It was a good kill and the old woman certainly deserved it. But there is a _little_ problem."

"A problem?"

"Yes. You see, that Aretino boy was looking for The Dark Brotherhood. For _me_ , and my associates." Astrid slides from her perch, landing silently on her feet and stands beside the feral-looking man. The two appear even more menacing as they stand side-by-side. "Grelod the Kind was a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill that you stole. A kill you must repay."

"And how am I to repay you?" she asks, not entirely certain she wants to know the answer.

"Funny you should ask that." Astrid cants her head, "If you look over there you'll notice we have three guests. There's a contract out on one of them, but I won't tell you which. See if you can figure it out. Make your choice. Make your kill. I just want to sit back and observe."

Lumen turns to look at the three "guests" Astrid mentioned. Two men and a woman are practically gift wrapped for her; their hands bound and their faces covered by black execution hoods. The sight - no, the entire situation - is surreal and a nervous giggle bubbles out of her before she can hold it back.

"Is something wrong?" Astrid asks, amusement evident in her voice.

"I- I thought-"

"You thought I brought you here to kill you," Astrid finishes for her as she walks toward Lumen with a dagger in her hands and offering it to her, hilt first. "If I wanted you dead do you really think I would go through the trouble of having you tracked down, drugged and then brought to me?"

Lumen takes the knife, running her thumb across the edge of the blade. "No, I suppose not." She murmurs, "It seems I have misjudged you. I apologize."

"Well, I think you know how to make it up to me," Astrid says, motioning toward the three victims.

Lumen takes a moment to take in her surroundings now that she knows she is not in immediate danger. She is in a shack - abandoned by the looks of it - and lit only by the light of the fire blazing in the hearth. Finally, Lumen stands and faces her three victims. While the Astrid claims there is a contract out on _one_ of them, Lumen is no fool - they are all here to die. She doubts the Dark Brotherhood would go through the trouble of capturing three people just to let two of them live to tell the tale.

She approaches her first victim, a Khajiit named Vasha who has no qualms about his life as a thief, a murderer, and a supposed _defiler of daughters_. Lumen grins and she trails her fingers across his shoulders as she moves to stand behind him. She roughly grabs him by the muzzle, wrenches his head backwards and slits his throat. His body crumples to the floor when she lets him go and she moves to her next victim.

The next is an Imperial woman named Alea Quintus. The woman claims to be a mother of six, as if that knowledge might give her would-be assassin pause. But it does not, and Lumen dispatches her in the same manner as the Khajiit.

Lumen steps over Alea's lifeless body and approaches her last victim; Fultheim the Fearless. She wonders if his name is supposed to be some kind of _joke_. He's anything but fearless with all the whimpering and pleading he's doing. Lumen doesn't spare another thought for the man as she drives the dagger into his heart.

With the bloody knife still clasped in her hand, Lumen pads softly across the floor, leaving bloody footprints in her wake and she stands before the pair of assassins. "Satisfied?" she asks.

"Very," Astrid sounds pleased and she reaches out to Lumen, tugging a twig from her hair, a remnant from her fight with the dragon. "Why all three?" she asks, tossing the twig to the floor.

"Why not?" Lumen shrugs. "You told me to kill, so I did."

Astrid laughs, " _Very_ good. I give you an order to spill blood and you follow through. No questions and no remorse." She lifts her hand as if she means to remove more twigs from Lumen's hair, but she stops herself. "Well, you're free to go… but I would like to invite you to join my little family."

Lumen, feeling increasingly aware of her disheveled appearance, combs her fingers through her hair. But she stops upon hearing Astrid's offer. "Wait- you want me to join the Dark Brotherhood?"

"I do," Astrid answers simply, "Will you join us?"

"I- I don't know. Is this an offer I _can't_ refuse?" Lumen asks warily.

"Of course not. If you'd rather continue doing-" Astrid pauses, waving her hand in the air and seemingly looking for the right words, "-whatever it is that you _do_ , you may. We can go our separate ways right now."

Lumen's uncertainly seems to be enough of an answer for Astrid's silent associate, and he pushes away from the wall he was leaning against and walks to the door. He places his hand on the doorknob and pauses, looking rather put-out as he waits on Astrid's orders to leave or not.

"Are we done?" Astrid's voice is light as she turns away from Lumen and steps silently toward the door and her associate. She pauses, and looks over her shoulder to say, "Try not to steal anymore of our contracts."

_I won't be as generous next time,_ Lumen hears unsaid.

"Wait! I didn't say no."

"You didn't say yes, either."

"I can't agree to this without asking a few questions first."

Astrid and her associate, who appears as irritated as ever, share a look before Astrid turns her attention back to Lumen. "Then, by all means, ask."

Lumen, unable to shake the memory of Aventus Aretino from her mind, starts with the question that has been eating away at her ever since she met the boy. "I've been thinking about the Black Sacrament," she tells her, "How do you even know if someone-"

"Ah-ah," Astrid interrupts her, "Now _that_ is a Dark Brotherhood secret. One I won't share unless you're a part of the family."

Lumen sighs, and does not bother to mask her irritation, "I just want to know if I'm being asked to join a cult or not."

"Bah," Astrid waves her hand dismissively, "We're no more of a cult than the Thieves Guild. Certainly the Brotherhood has its own myths and legends but that's _all_ they are. So you don't need to worry about performing any bizarre rituals or communing with Daedra or _whatever_ it is you're so concerned about."

"Well, that's good to know," she says, feeling slightly relived. "So... All I have to do is kill people for gold? That's it?"

"That's the long and the short of it."

"All right," Lumen says, her mouth curving into a smile, "I'll join you."

"Then let's go home, _sister_."


	4. Sanctuary

There's a lot about Skyrim that Lumen doesn't like, but she loves the night sky. The stars are so crisp and bright, and while Masser and Secunda are just as brilliant in Skyrim as they are in Cyrodiil, they are made even more beautiful by the aurora blazing beneath them. Lumen is often distracted by the sky when she travels at night, but tonight she can allow it. Traveling with two Dark Brotherhood assassins and their daedric horse certainly has it's perks.

At first Lumen had been hesitant to ride on the horse with Astrid. She's comfortable with horses but she'd never been around one with glowing, red eyes before. But with a little persuasion from Astrid, and some growling from Arnbjorn, she finally relented.

"All right, tidbit. Now that we're _friends_ , I've got a few questions of my own to ask." Arnbjorn sounds anything but friendly, and even from her high vantage on Shadowmere, he still looks menacing. He doesn't wait for Lumen to agree to answer any questions when he asks, "Mind telling me what exactly happened to you after your Thalmor friends killed that dragon?"

Lumen narrows her eyes, "How much of that fight did you see?" She had been afraid of this, and she hopes her little _Dragonborn problem_ won't be a problem for the Brotherhood.

"I saw enough," he tells her, and from the way Astrid is glancing back at her, it's obvious she's eager for an answer as well.

"Um, well-" she sighs, wondering if they will believe her at all when she tells them. "I’m the Dragonborn, supposedly."

“There’s been a rumor of a Bosmer Dragonborn floating around,” Arnbjorn says, turning away from her to watch the road ahead of them. “If I hadn’t seen you take that dragon’s soul, I wouldn’t believe you.”

Lumen bites back a groan, if she'd never helped those Whiterun guards fight that stupid dragon - no, she can't even blame it on them. It is entirely her fault. She had hoped to earn a reward in the form of gold, and lots of it, from the Jarl. But instead she earned a title and a housecarl, Lydia, whom she left back in Whiterun.  Lumen didn't want to be a thane, and she definitely never wanted to be a hero. Though, at first she enjoyed training with the Greybeards and helping Delphine. Friends had always been in short supply for her, and it figures that just when she was starting to regard Delphine as a friend, the Breton starts spewing _crazy_ at her.

"Is this going to be a problem?" Lumen asks.

Astrid shrugs. "I only expect you to complete your contracts. What you do on your own time is your business. Though, I admit, I was raised on tales of the Dragonborn as a child and-"

"I'm not what you expected," Lumen snorts. "I get that a lot."

"I mean no offense," Astrid says hastily.

"None taken," Lumen smiles, even though the Nord can't see it, "Not to change the subject but I was promised an answer to my question about the Black Sacrament."

Astrid laughs, "All right, but first tell me how much you know of the Dark Brotherhood."

"I was raised in Cyrodiil, so... I heard about the destruction of the sanctuaries, and the Night Mother's crypt in Bravil. The Dark Brotherhood was all anyone could talk about after that happened, so I overheard some things. I heard the Night Mother was the wife of Sithis and that the Brotherhood were followers of Sithis." Lumen explains, then adds, "Which is why I thought the Dark Brotherhood was a religious cult."

"I see," Astrid nods, "Well, the Black Sacrament is a ritual performed when a prospective client wishes to have someone killed. Think of it as a prayer to the Night Mother."

"So what happens after the ritual is performed? Does the Night Mother tell you?"

"Oh, she doesn't tell _me_ ," Astrid says, amusement creeping into her voice, "She tells the Listener, who is the only person to hear the Night Mother speak. But there hasn't been a Listener in many, many years."

"If there's no Listener, then how do you know when the Black Sacrament has been performed?"

Astrid glances over her shoulder at Lumen, a smile on her lips, "I have a pair of eyes and ears stationed in each city and in a few of the smaller villages all over Skyrim. If someone performs the Black Sacrament, we find out eventually."

* * *

They reach the sanctuary as the first golden rays of dawn flood across the sky and burn away the early morning fog. The entrance is tucked away in a rocky niche, and an ominous black door is all that stands between Lumen and her new home.

"And here we are," Astrid motions toward the door, "Do you remember the passphrase?"

"Yes," Lumen answers and steps forward.

_"What is the music of life?"_

Lumen tries her level best to ignore the chill that runs down her spine at the sound of that eerie, hissing voice, and her own voice quavers slightly when she gives the answer. "Silence, my brother."

Arnbjorn barks a laugh. "The mighty Dragonborn... Afraid of an enchanted door."

"Arn," Astrid warns him, but she's smiling too.

Lumen sighs, ducking inside the sanctuary when the door swings open and welcomes the three assassins home. Once inside, Arnbjorn vanishes down a stone staircase and Astrid hands Lumen a bundle of neatly folded, leather armor. "The armor of a Dark Brotherhood assassin. May it serve you well, sister."

"Thank you, Astrid. It's lovely," Lumen runs a hand over the smooth, oiled leather. It's the most well made armor she ever seen, and the red glimmer that flickers across the surface indicates that not only is it exquisitely made, but enchanted as well.

"Come on, I’ll show you were you'll be sleeping, and then perhaps you'd like to try your armor on? You might need a little help at first, all the straps and snaps can be a bit _fiddly_ ," says Astrid, beckoning her to follow her down into the main chamber of the sanctuary.

Lumen is led to a large room outfitted with a forge and a small training area. The air is humid and cool due to the small waterfall that drains into a natural pool, above which a stained glass effigy of Sithis is placed in the stone. She notices a word wall at the far end of the room and she is hit with a faint, unfamiliar feeling of guilt. The sight of the Dovahzul etched into the stone reminds her of Delphine and Lumen wonders if she's still waiting for her, or if she found some other fool to do her dirty work.

Lumen approaches the wall, unable to ignore the way it tugs at her soul. Astrid watches her with unhidden curiosity, but says nothing when Lumen steps away from the wall to resume their tour of the sanctuary.

Astrid shows her to a room with multiple beds and storage chests, and to a previously unclaimed bed. "I hope you don't mind sharing a room."

"It's not a problem. I'm just grateful to have a place to sleep," Lumen says truthfully, placing her meager belongings in the chest at the end of her bed. A bowl of cold water and a cloth are placed on the nightstand, and Astrid gives her some privacy so that she can wash herself and change into clean underclothes before trying her new armor on.

Her old, filthy armor is piled on the floor, and she's not sure if she should attempt to clean it or just burn it at this point. It's covered in scorch marks and dried Altmer blood, although, that might be reason enough to keep it around.

Astrid returns to the room and helps Lumen into her shrouded armor, which is surprisingly tight, almost to the point of discomfort. "Astrid," says Lumen, her voice strained, "Is it supposed to be this tight? I feel like I'm going to split the rear if I try to sit down."

The pretty Nord laughs at her, "That's normal, the leather will stretch the more you wear it."

"I don't mean to complain, I'm just not used to such tight-fitting gear." Lumen smiles as she looks down at herself, thoroughly enjoying the warm hum of the enchantments against her skin.

"Don't worry about it." Astrid inhales deeply, the scent of food cooking in the kitchen below wafting up to the sleeping area. "Let's get some breakfast and introduce you to the rest of the family. Oh, and don't forget to speak to Nazir for your first set of contracts."

The two women descend the rickety, wood staircase and enter the kitchen, where the rest of the family is already gathered around a long table in the center of the room. There is a place set for each chair, even though there are far more empty chairs than filled ones, and Lumen wonders if they are set for fallen family members. She didn't think a group of assassins would be very sentimental, but Astrid puts so much emphasis on the whole family thing, so perhaps they are.

She is greeted warmly by most of her new family, even though Nazir isn't interested in getting to know her until she's proven herself, and Festus Krex seems genuinely put-out that he has another name to remember. At least Gabriella, Babette and Veezara are happy to see a new addition to the family.

Lumen settles into a chair near Gabriella and helps herself to a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and sausage, the various conversations around the table fading into nothing as the rest of the family does the same. After a few minutes, Gabriella's voice breaks the silence. "Astrid," she begins. "Babette told me you received another letter from the Keeper."

Astrid nods. "I did, just before I left, actually. He's in Skyrim and should be arriving very soon."  

“We’ve heard _that_ before. I thought he was supposed to be here months ago,” Gabriella says as she rests her chin on her hands. “What could have possibly delayed him?”

“I have no idea," Astrid answers with a shrug. "He didn't say."

"What do we know about this Keeper, anyway?" Babette asks, idly twirling a butter knife between her short, but surprisingly dexterous fingers.

"Not much at all. But there's only so much he can put in a letter,” Astrid admits.

The conversation dwindles, and after a moment Lumen asks, "What's a Keeper?"

"The Keeper is an assassin who's been tasked with the care of the Night Mother's remains," Astrid tells her.

“Wait- her crypt was destroyed and, well... I heard she was destroyed along with it,” Lumen says.

Lumen expects an answer from Astrid, but it's Gabriella who speaks instead. “That's just a rumor started by the Thalmor. The Night Mother was moved to the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary in Cheydinhal.”

“And now she's coming here,” Astrid says with a sigh, placing her fork on her empty plate. “After how many years? I'm surprised the Keeper didn't come sooner, but now I wonder why he's bothering at all.”

“We're the last sanctuary in Tamriel, so I guess it makes sense to bring her here,” says Festus. “Do you think the Keeper is hoping to find the Listener?”

Astrid scoffs, not bothering to hide her scorn. "We don't _need_ a Listener."

“Well _I_ know that,” Festus says quickly. “But the Keeper doesn't.”

“He'll learn, then,” Astrid's tone nothing short of dangerous, and the group seemed to silently agree to drop the subject of Keepers and Listeners. Lumen is still brimming with questions but she is content to let the subject drop for now. At the moment, all she wants is a few hours of sleep, and with her breakfast finished, she excuses herself from the table to do just that.

* * *

Three days have passed since Lumen was welcomed into the Dark Brotherhood.

She obtained three contracts from Nazir and quickly left the sanctuary to complete them. Nazir told her there was no time limit, and that the contracts could be completed at her leisure but Lumen has nothing better to do, and she is in desperate need of gold.

The first contract had been for a beggar, Narfi, and he died quickly with the blade of Lumen's dagger buried deep in his ribcage. It was an unsatisfying kill. The man didn't even try to fight back and she had decided then and there to kill him quickly and get it over with if he wasn't going to make it fun for her.

Beitild, the second contract, had been an entirely different story. The woman was foul-tempered and a fighter until the end - just as Nazir promised she would be.  Lumen followed her into that mine she was so proud of and proceeded to smash her head in with a pickaxe until there was more of her brain on the walls than in her skull.

 _That_ had been a satisfying kill.

Now Lumen crouches behind a boulder and waits for the right moment to kill Ennodius Papius.  The man is beyond paranoid; constantly looking over his shoulder and muttering to himself. More than once Lumen sees him grasping at the dagger strapped to his hip for reassurance. She knows she could take him in a fight, but there is a wood mill not too far from his campsite and she doesn't want to attract any unwanted attention. A quiet kill is the best option.

When Ennodius walks to the lakeside to relieve himself, Lumen moves from where she's hiding and quietly steps across the rocks. This is a dangerous place to make camp, the rocks are slick from the spray of the nearby waterfall and it would be all too easy to slip and fall. Her steps are slow and careful even though her hands are shaking in anticipation of a kill. But what she doesn't anticipate is a loud crunch beneath her foot.

Ennodius gasps and whirls around, scrambling to tuck himself back into his pants, "Who- Who are you?"

"Well, _shit_ ," Lumen shakes the gooey mudcrab guts from her boot. _"So much for being sneaky,"_ she thinks as she advances on Ennodius, not bothering to answer his question.

"Oh no... You're with the Dark Brotherhood, ain'tcha? I knew it... _I knew it_!" He tries to run, but the rocks beneath his feet are slippery and Ennodius loses his balance. He flings his arms out in a vain attempt to steady himself, and Lumen watches, dumbfounded, as the man's foot flies out from under him and he falls, cracking his head against the rocks.

“You've got to be kidding me,” she mutters to herself, walking over to Ennodius' silent form and kneeling beside him. “Still breathing, but-” she tilts his head to inspect the wound which is bleeding profusely, “No need to let you suffer, right?” Lumen rolls Ennodius over and holds his head beneath the water, humming cheerfully as the man's body spasms, and finally stills. Satisfied with her work, she strips the camp of anything useful and heads down the road that will take her home.

* * *

Lumen arrives at the sanctuary shortly before nightfall, tired from her travels but feeling exceptionally pleased with herself. She's just completed three Dark Brotherhood contracts in the span of a week, and she'd done so without being seen. But just because she was proud of herself didn't mean Nazir would be, even though she did hope to gain the Redguard's approval eventually.

She finds Nazir lingering in the front room, poking through a stack of books on Astrid's desk. “Ah, Nazir. Just the man I wanted to see," Lumen says as she approaches him.

“People only say that to me when they want money,” Nazir says shortly, not bothering to look at her as he pulls a book free from the stack.

Lumen grins at him. “If it makes you feel better, that's all I want from anyone.”

“Well your honesty is refreshing, I'll give you that.”  He turns to face her, “I heard about Narfi – a knife to the heart, how _innovative_.”

Her grin does not falter at his insulting tone, and Nazir continues, “However, the rumor I heard involving Beitild is _far_ more interesting. I understand her mine has a new paint job,” he laughs. “And what of Ennodius? My contacts are good but I daresay news of his demise hasn't reached me.”

“Dead,” she says, then, sensing Nazir wants more details than that, she continues. "He slipped on some rocks near the water and cracked his head. I think he would've died from the hit to the head, but I drowned him in the lake.”

Nazir nods, apparently satisfied and he pulls a large coin purse from his pocket, "Well done. Maybe you're not as worthless as I thought," he says as he hands the coin purse to her.

“Thanks, I think.” Lumen slips the purse into the pouch at her hip, "Do you have any more contracts for me?"

"Astrid has a job for you, actually. She's up in the chapel helping the Keeper get settled," Nazir says with a pained sigh. "He arrived earlier today."

"You seem thrilled," Lumen says, her voice deadpan. “What's wrong? Is he an asshole or something?”

“No, he's incredibly polite,” Nazir folds his arms. “I'm not thrilled about having the corpse of an old woman here, even though I suppose I can make an exception for the Night Mother. But her Keeper- _ugh_ ,” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I really _hate_ jesters.”

“Wait- what? A jester?” The only jester Lumen has seen since she left Cyrodiil is Cicero, and didn't he say he was taking his mother's corpse to a new home? What if that corpse wasn't _his_ mother, but the Night Mother? It can't be a coincidence...

"Go see for yourself.” Nazir says, tucking a book under his arm and wandering off in search of a quiet place to read.

Lumen hurries through the sanctuary, curious to see if this jester is who she thinks he is. The chapel doors are wide open and when Lumen peers inside she is greeted by the sight of Cicero yanking a crowbar from Arnbjorn's hands, which the Nord releases with little resistance. He is eager to get away from Cicero, even at the cost of one of his precious tools.

"Cicero thanks you for your help, but he can take it from here."

Astrid clears her throat. "As I was saying, you and the Night Mother are welcome here, and you will be given the respect deserving of your position as Keeper," she says, sounding as calm and controlled as she always does. "But remember that this is my sanctuary and I make the rules... Are we clear?”

"Oh, yes! _Crystal clear_ , mistress,"  Cicero purrs, turning around to pry the crate apart. "You're the boss."

Astrid rolls her eyes and steps into the hallway, the frown on her face fading away when she notices Lumen. "Welcome home, sister. I hope your contracts went well."

"Of course they went well, did you ever have any doubt?" Lumen says with a grin. "Nazir said you have a job for me."

“I do, rather more interesting than the jobs you did for him, I think.” Astrid tells her, pausing for only a moment to watch Arnbjorn as he passes by, grumbling to himself and making a bee-line to his forge. “You are to go to Markarth and speak to Muiri. She works at the Hag's Cure, but she can be found at the Silver Blood Inn at night. The girl wants an ex-lover killed. So go talk to her, set up the contract and carry it out."

"Simple enough, anything else I should know?" Lumen asks, desperately trying to concentrate on what Astrid is telling her, but that's incredibly difficult when there's a jester in the adjoining room singing a macabre tune.

"Just be professional and represent your family well. Since this is your first official contract, I'll let you keep the entire payment."  Astrid smiles at her and adds, "She'll be generous, they always are."

Astrid walks past her, and Lumen steps into the chapel were Cicero is carefully prying the wood crate apart. He looks over his shoulder when he hears her enter the room, “Ah, another member of the family- Oh! _Wait_!” He turns to face her, and his smile brightens. “I remember you! From the road, yes- Cicero _never_ forgets a face.”

Before Lumen can properly greet him, Cicero has dropped the crowbar to the floor and is skipping toward her. "Does Lumen remember poor, helpless Cicero?"

She can't help but smile at him. "Of course. You're- uh, pretty memorable."

"Oh sister you _flatter_ me," his voice trails off into a giggle and he looks away as if embarrassed. Lumen can't decide if it's endearing or just plain creepy to see a grown man behave this way, so she settles on _endearingly creepy_ \- a fitting description as any for Cicero.

Cicero turns back to her, smiling, "You made poor Cicero so _happy_ when you stopped to help him, and surely Mother is happy with you as well."

Lumen's glances at the remnants of the crate, and the dusty, stone coffin inside. "So that's... The Night Mother?"

"Oh, you are _silly_ ," Cicero says with a laugh. "That's a crate."

A small laugh escapes her. “I _know_ that. I meant that's her- in the coffin.”

“Well of course she's in the coffin, where else would a dead woman be?” Cicero asks, raising his brows in question.

Lumen notices that his eyebrows are perfectly plucked and shaped. _"Imperials,"_ she thinks with some amusement,  and then says, "I guess you have a point, there."

Cicero gestures to his cap. "Two points, actually."

" _Stop_ that," Lumen says, biting her lip and trying not to laugh again.

Cicero's eyes are sparkling with mischief. "Stop what, sister?"

"Nothing- never mind," Lumen waves her hand in the air, dismissing the subject. No reason to call Cicero out when he behaves like a fool, is there? "I'm going to rest and uh, just let you and the Night Mother get settled."

"Cicero would like to rest too. But Cicero must tend to mother, it has been too long since her last oiling," he says with no small amount of delight.

Lumen stares at him, only realizing too late that her mouth is hanging open in surprise. "Why do you oil her?" she asks, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

"To keep Mother preserved, of course," he explains, picking up the crowbar from the floor and twirling it in his hands. "Rest well, sister." He turns away from her to resume his work, not noticing - or not caring - about the revulsion on Lumen's face and in her voice.

Lumen spares Cicero and the coffin one last look before she leaves the chapel.

* * *

There is a voice humming in the darkness, and though it is unfamiliar, there is only one name Lumen can give it - _Mother_. Only a mother could sing a song sweeter than any summer-ripened fruit, a song that carries the promise of undying love. Only a mother could possess such gentle fingers, delicate and graceful as they comb through Lumen's hair and down the nape of her neck. But only a corpse could have fingertips as hard as cured leather and as cold as the grave.

Lumen jolts awake.

She sits up in her bed and roughly scratches at her scalp, desperate to erase the sensation of dead fingers in her hair. Pushing the furs away from her body, and careful not to knock an empty wine bottle to the floor, she crawls from her bed. The light in the sleeping area is too low to see properly, but she can hear gentle puffs of breaths and the occasional snore drifting from the occupied beds in the room. Most of the family is still asleep, and judging by the cooling embers in the braziers, dawn is only a few hours away. No sense in going back to sleep, not that she could after a dream like _that_.

Lumen dresses in near silence, pulling a thin, white tunic over her head and then stepping into a pair of soft, doeskin breeches. A chill courses through her and she steps out into the hallway as quietly as she can, not wanting to disturb anyone, or speak to anyone for that matter. Not until she can shake this hangover, anyway. But the numbness creeping its way into her toes and the tips of her ears is a more pressing matter, and she hopes to warm herself by the fires of Arnbjorn's forge. But as she makes her way down the hall, she slows to a stop as she nears the chapel doors.

Lumen places her ear against the door. There are no sounds coming from the room, which isn't surprising considering the late hour.  Cicero is probably asleep like the rest of her family, save for Babette, who is nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps she is still a little drunk from the wine she had before bed, but she wants to see the Night Mother. She wants to know what is so special about this old corpse that would inspire such devotion from her Keeper. Spurred by curiosity, and perhaps a dash of lunacy, she pushes the chapel door open and slips inside.

The chapel is lit by the candles that surround the Night Mother's sealed coffin, and by the firelight from the main room filtering through the stained glass. The polished, stone coffin glows like a beacon, reflecting the flickering light and shrouded in a sanguine halo from behind. It's as if Sithis is embracing his wife, and for a brief moment Lumen feels like she's intruded on something intimate, something not meant for their children's eyes.

 _"Ridiculous,"_ she thinks. _"I'm going to be as crazy as Cicero if I keep thinking like that."_

Lumen walks down the aisle between the stone benches and closer to her quarry, her feet disturbing the nightshade petals that have been scattered across the floor. The room grows warmer with each step she takes toward the Night Mother's coffin, and there is a rush of ambient noise in her ears, loud enough to drown out the sound of her own heartbeat. Lumen knows she should be concerned but she can't find it in her to care. She doesn't care about anything; she is so warm and _so loved_ that nothing else matters. All she cares about is the gentle whispers in her ears and the ethereal arms wrapping her in a tender embrace.

_Soon child. Soon... But not yet..._

That voice. That very same voice from when she met Cicero on the road, but at least this time Lumen understands what the source is - The Night Mother. She decides then that she has either gone completely mad, or the Night Mother really is speaking to her. Lumen has no time to consider what _that_ might mean, because the once-loving embrace shifts into a painful vise as solid, real arms trap her own against her body. She is hauled away from the coffin and the gentle whispers in her ears are replaced by the frantic mutterings of the Night Mother's Keeper.

"No, no, no- Cicero knew better than to come here. _Knew better_. Mother was safe. Safe from _you_ and safe from _her_. We should have stayed!" Cicero drags Lumen down the aisle, scattering nightshade petals in their wake, and she struggles to keep her feet moving so her bare heels don't scrape across the floor.

"Let me go!" She demands, knowing it won't do her any good, but she is not one to give up without a fight. " _Now_ , Cicero."

" _You_ ," the sound is closer to a snarl rather than speech. "She sent _you_ to disrespect our matron, didn't she?"

"I came on my own," Lumen snaps, her voice strained due to Cicero's crushing embrace. The motley he wears is overly large, bagging on his frame and effectively hiding his muscles. She never guessed Cicero would be this strong. This _hurts_ -

Recognizing the distress in her voice, he loosens his grip on her only enough to afford her a little comfort, but no means of escape."To what end, sister?" he asks.

"I..." Lumen hesitates. Her natural inclination is to lie, but a lie might agitate him more than the truth at this point. "I just wanted to see what she looks like."

Cicero rests his chin against the top of Lumen's head, his breath tickling her scalp. “You know, if this were a proper sanctuary Cicero would have the authority to punish you," he says, his voice dripping with pleasure. "A whipping, or, oooh- a _flaying_.  Ah, but Astrid would likely feed me to her _dog_ if I were to take matters into my own hands, wouldn't she?"

Astrid might, though Lumen doubts that threat is enough to stop Cicero. No- if he truly wanted to punish her, he would. "Cicero, I meant no disrespect to the Night Mother. I just wanted to see her."

To Lumen's surprise, his hold on her eases and she is able to slide free of his arms. She whirls around to face him, and the smile on his face does little to comfort her. He reminds her of a wolf that's finally cornered a rabbit, white teeth bared in a feral grin, amber eyes gleaming. "Did you ever hear the story of the curious Khajiit, sister?" He asks, his voice a silky purr.

Lumen nods, and Cicero's grin does not waver, "Then you know what happened to him."

She laughs then, quiet and humorless. "Is that a _threat_?"

Seconds pass them by as they hold each other's gaze, both challenging and unwilling to back down. That is, until Cicero sighs and in a voice more tired and worn than Lumen expects to hear he says, "Forgive me- it's been a long time since I have shared Mother's presence with anyone," and to his credit, he does look suitably guilty.

She nods, satisfied by his apology. "What about the other assassins? In Cyrodiil- You had to share the Night Mother with them, right?"

"Yes, at one point," he says quietly, "But Cicero has been alone for so very long."

Lumen wonders how long, exactly. But the faraway look in his eyes tells her she's better off not asking, it's likely not something Cicero wants to talk about, and she can appreciate that. Instead, her mouth quirks into a lop-sided grin as she watches him. His wide eyes and the slight tremor in his hands reminds her of those yappy dogs the noble women often carry around the Imperial City.  Small, excitable, and ready to draw blood at a moment's notice.

Encouraged by her smile, Cicero closes the distance between them. Lumen tenses as he nears, expecting to be attacked, but instead he places his hands on her shoulders. "But Cicero is not alone anymore, is he? He has a new family and he has you. Sweet, _kind_ Lumen."

No one has ever accused Lumen of being sweet or kind, and it's fitting that the only person to do so is an insane, violent, little man in a jester costume.

"Er, Lumen- you're bleeding."

"What?" Lumen asks, making no effort to mask her surprise. "Where?"

"Here," Cicero says, moving his hand from her shoulder and slowly dragging his thumb beneath the swell of her lower lip, wiping away a small drop of blood. Lumen flinches away from his touch, but he doesn't seem to notice as his attention is focused on the blood smeared across the pad of his thumb. Finally, his eyes flick up to meet hers and Lumen gives in to an involuntary shiver.  She would know that dark, hungry look anywhere. It's often what her victims saw in her own eyes before she stabbed the life out of them.

Lumen brings her fingers to her mouth to wipe away the last remnants of blood. "My last two contracts were in the Pale. The chapped lips are just a bonus, I guess," she says, trying to keep her tone light, because the air in the room is too heavy, and Cicero's stare too intense for her liking. His eyes remain fixated on hers for a heartbeat too long, then his mouth twists into a grin and he turns away from her.

"So, I-" Lumen's words fade away as Cicero's lips close around the tip of his thumb, and he slowly sucks her blood from his skin. It's not a careless motion, like the way one might wet their thumb to turn a page in an old book. This is something else entirely, and the tiny hairs along the nape of her neck rise at the sight before her. There is overt pleasure in every movement; the flutter of his lashes at the first taste, and the way he slowly draws his lips away, tongue still working inside his mouth as if to savor the last remnants of flavor before it dissolves to nothing.

Cicero turns his gaze back to her, his brows knitting together in confusion. "Were you going to say something?" He asks, his tone is maniacally cheerful, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Lumen opens her mouth, then closes it, utterly at a loss for words. She squeezes her eyes shut, drawing in a shuddering breath and finally says, "I- I need to go." Her exit from the chapel is swift and graceless; stumbling over her own feet as she fights the desire to run half-dressed from the sanctuary and into the cold, sobering pre-dawn air.

What in the Void just happened back there? The fool is threatening her one minute and the next he's rendering her speechless with one, small motion. She knows she should be angry with him for attacking her and for threatening her, and some part of her still is. But- She _likes_ what she saw, though she doesn't know why. She only knows that Cicero went from being a mild curiosity to downright fascinating in the span of a heartbeat.

Watching him kill must be marvelous...

"Void _take_ me if I start mooning over a fucking jester," Lumen mutters to herself as she tugs her shrouded armor on.

Once she's properly armored and packed, she leaves the sanctuary. She is eager to distract herself with a contract and to forget about strange voices in her head, and strange jesters that stir even stranger desires. Well- maybe she doesn't want to forget about that last part, but she definitely needs time to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Heiwako for her feedback on this chapter. As well as timeywimeyspaceywacey for her feedback and help with my punctuation booboo's. :3
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Feel free to comment and let me know what you think. Oh, and a big thank you to everyone who has left kudos on this fic so far! I appreciate it!


	5. Dust and Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: abusive/unhealthy relationship at the end of the chapter. Easy to skip if that’s a squick.

_A Bosmeri child, no older than twelve, peers over the edge of a worn alchemy table. Watching as her mother plucks petals from Nightshade blossoms and crushes them into a fine paste with a mortar and pestle. Lumen loves watching her mother work. There is unfaltering purpose in every movement as she crushes, mixes, and boils the essence from the various plants on the table._

_Her mother grasps a small, yellow flower by its stem and twirls it between her fingers, "What's this one called?" She asks, smiling softly as she awaits her daughters answer._

_"Dragon's tongue."_

_"Very good, and this one?" She motions to a bundle of foul-smelling mushrooms._

_"Namira's Rot."_

_"Yes, sweet girl, and what are these?"_

_She stares at the impossibly small, brown seeds in the palm of her mother's hand. They appear to be nothing more than grains of sand, but Lumen knows better._

_"Foxglove seeds," she answers, feeling a swell of pride when her mother nods and says, "That's right, Lulawen."_

_She wrinkles her nose, "Mama..."_

_"Oh, right," her mother laughs, "It's Lumen now, isn't it?"_

_"Yes. I like it better than Lulawen. It's a silly name."_

_"I'm afraid you have a silly mother, then. Because I think it’s a beautiful name.”_

_Lumen may dislike her name, may think it's silly, but she never thought her mother was. Not when she's so focused at her alchemy table. Like now, when she turns her attention from her daughter and back to the mixture steaming over a small fire. When it's almost to the point of boiling, her mother grasps the neck of the flask with a pair of metal tongs and carefully pours the clear liquid into a small, glass tube._

_It’s a highly potent poison made from crushing and boiling Foxglove seeds. Lumen has only seen her mother create this mixture once before. The first time she was only six, so the memory is gauzy like a dream. But she remembers the effect well._

_Her mother had been married to a wealthy Imperial man. But he became very ill after her mother had slipped the poison into his wine. The healers said he suffered from a weak heart, and no one was surprised when he died a month later._

_Her mother inherited everything, and once the accounts were settled, Aranwen and Lumen moved into a lovely home in Chorrol. She liked living alone with her mother, and she liked all the nice toys and pretty dresses her mother would bring home to her. But eventually the gifts dwindled, and her mother spent a lot of time away from home. "Hunting for a wealthy husband," she told her. A few months later her mother met an Altmer named Malrian. He invited both Aranwen and Lumen to his home; an estate just outside of Leyawiin._

_He's always busy, although Lumen doesn't know exactly what he does. But he must be very important. He often locks himself away in his study to work, and he entertains all kinds of important-looking visitors. Nobles of all races, but usually Mer in black robes accompanied by guards in shining, golden armor._

_Aranwen is his mistress, but Lumen isn't certain what that means. She thinks a mistress must be like a wife, but perhaps not enough like one to make her mother happy. She frowns then, not understanding why her mother isn't happy. It didn't make sense to her because Malrian is always so kind to them._

_"What's the matter, sweetheart?"_

_"Are you going to use that on..." Her voice trails off, not knowing if she should question her mother on this matter or not._

_"I am," Aranwen says._

_"I- I like Malrian, though," Lumen looks away from her mother, ashamed. "He's nice to me. Isn't he nice to you, Mama?"_

_To Lumen's relief, her mother smiles at her. Aranwen corks the vial and slips it into her pocket. "I am bored with him," she explains, "It will be easier to leave if I do this. Do you understand?"_

_"Not really," she admits._

_Aranwen gently brushes her fingers through Lumen’s hair, still smiling, though it has gone a bit wan. "My girl, there are some things that I will do that won't make any sense to you. But you'll understand when you're older. Now, Promise me that you won't breathe a word of this to anyone."_

_"I promise," Lumen says, staring intensely into her mother's eyes and willing her to believe. Because it is true - she will never tell a soul. She will never do anything that might get her mother caught. Malrian may be kind to her, but her mother is everything to her and her mother will always come first._

  
_"Good girl," her mother kneels down and presses a kiss to her forehead, "Run along and play. I'm going to take Malrian his afternoon tea."_

* * *

The door to Muiri's room closes behind Lumen, muffling the sounds of revelry coming from the bar at the Silver-Blood Inn. It's Fredas, and like most places that serve alcohol, the inn is rather lively on this particular night. Muiri's room is anything but. Dimly lit and almost gloomy, it's the perfect atmosphere for what Lumen's about to tell her.

"Well?" Muiri asks, looking expectantly at Lumen.

"It's done. Alain and Nilsine are dead," Lumen says, then takes a seat in an empty chair, grateful to have a moment to rest. She's tired, sore, and covered in cuts and bruises thanks to Alain's company of bandits.

"Oh, that's-" Muiri sinks down onto her bed, "I can't believe it."

 _"Please don't start crying,"_ Lumen thinks, then says "There will be plenty of time for regret later. I just want my payment."

"My only regret is not doing this sooner," Muiri says firmly, and reaches for the lockbox on her nightstand. She pulls a heavy coin purse from the box and hands it to Lumen. "This is all I have, I hope it's enough."

Lumen smiles as she takes the purse from Muiri, "It'll do." She stands, securing the purse in a pouch at her hip and slinging her knapsack over her shoulder. She desperately wants to go home. It's strange enough for her to long for company, but now that she has a family she finds that she misses them.

"Wait," Muiri pushes from her bed, moving closer to Lumen while sliding a small, silver ring from her finger. "I want you to have this. Consider it your bonus- and a symbol of my affection."

Lumen hesitates, knowing damn well what Muiri's _affection_ cost Alain and Nilsine. The ring is nothing special; a silver ring with a light blue glimmer undulating across the surface. "It's enchanted?" She asks.

Muiri nods, "It'll bring you luck if you're an alchemist."

"I'm not an alchemist," Lumen says. "Why don't you keep it? The gold you've paid me is more than sufficient."

Her smile falters a little. "Please? It would mean so much to me if you'd take it."

Why did everyone in Skyrim want to give Lumen their old, useless crap? Aventus and his damn plate. Muiri and her damn ring. Lumen is a Bosmer, not a magpie. "If you insist," she says, taking the ring from Muiri, and securing it in the pouch with the gold.

When Lumen turns away and walks toward the door, Muiri's voice stops her. "Oh, you're going? So soon?"

"I believe," Lumen begins, trying to keep her voice level even though Muiri is starting to annoy her. "Our business is concluded. Unless you have someone else you'd like killed?"

"Well no. It's just- it's late and you could stay...With me." Muiri says, "If you're interested.”

Lumen's brows shoot upwards. _Now_ she understands what Muiri meant by affection. Amusement overrides her annoyance with the woman, and if Lumen didn’t know her she’d take her up on the offer. She really is quite beautiful; large eyes, smooth, youthful skin and lush lips. But Lumen has to refuse. Jumping into bed with Muiri is hazardous to one’s health.

"I am flattered. But I don't think I'm supposed to sleep with clients,” Lumen says, trying to let Muiri down gently.

"I understand." Muiri nods, "Thank you for everything."

* * *

Lumen sighs heavily as she trudges through the sanctuary. The trip home had been wretched thanks to the torrents rain falling from the sky, leaving her miserable and soaked. To make matters worse, a cut on her thigh is now showing the first signs of infection. But she's glad to be home and eager to tell Astrid about her successful contract – if she can _find_ her. Astrid isn't at her usual haunts; her desk is empty, as well as her bedroom.

She continues her search, moving deeper into the sanctuary and into the alchemy room. There she finds Babette standing on a chair, leaning over the table in the center of the room and speaking with Cicero, who stands on the opposite side. They are discussing the various ingredients spread across the table, but their conversation comes to an abrupt halt when Lumen enters the room.

Her wet, leather boots squelch with each step she takes, and a sheepish smile tugs at her lips. She knows she looks terrible; rain-soaked hair spilling across her shoulders, loose tendrils plastered against her face, and a puddle of water gathering around her feet.

"Cicero is at a loss," he says, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "So many _wet elf_ jokes, but- oh, which one do I choose?"

"None of them, if you please," Babette says dryly. She then nods to Lumen, "You're hurt. I can smell the blood- and the infection."

Lumen blanches, "Is it that bad already?"

"Not yet," Babette smiles softly. “But those two particular scents stand out to a vampire. It's never a good idea to feed on someone who might be ill."

"Would you get sick if you did?" Lumen asks, slightly unnerved by the fact that the little vampire can smell her.

Babette shakes her head, "No. It would just taste awful." Her gaze flicks to the cut on Lumen's thigh, which shows clearly through her hastily stitched armor. "I've got a salve you can use for that." She jumps down from the chair and walks over to a shelf with an assortment of glass bottles and containers.

Lumen looks to Cicero, whose attention has returned to the ingredients spread across the table. She watches with interest as he sifts through a pile of Nightshade blossoms. Passing over those with blemishes, cuts, or discoloration of any kind. Choosing only the most perfect specimens. "I'm no alchemist," she begins, inching forward so she can get a better look, "But I believe the Nightshade blossoms with imperfections are still just as potent as those with none."

He doesn't look at her when he says, "Cicero knows this. But these are for the Night Mother, they _have_ to be perfect."

"He has been picking through my alchemy ingredients for hours," Babette says, and hands Lumen a small, metal container. "Use this and the infection should clear up in about a week."

"Thank you," Lumen smiles at Babette and turns to leave, but stops, "Oh, by the way- Is Astrid here?" she asks. Her question is for Babette to answer but Lumen's eyes are on Cicero, and she doesn't miss the way his near-permanent grin fades for a moment at the mention of their leader's name.

_“Interesting. Oh- his eye twitches too!”_

"Astrid is meeting with a client. She'll be back in a few days." Babette tells her, then turns to Cicero, "Are you almost done? I have work to do."

"Oh, no sister! Not at all. Cicero also needs Deathbell and I haven't looked through those yet."

The glare Babette casts at Cicero is positively murderous - made more menacing by the firelight glinting off her fangs - and Lumen is certain the little vampire would be sinking her teeth into Cicero were he not a dark brother. Instead of killing him on the spot, Babette takes a deep, calming breath, snatches a book from a nearby table and leaves the room.

Lumen exits the room as well. Leaving a happily humming Cicero to his work. She is eager to wash up, tend to her wounds and - gods willing - remain relatively dry from the rest of the night.

* * *

Cicero looks so tired.

She wouldn't think so had she not spent her last few days in the sanctuary studying him. Not with the way he capers about, all smiles and jokes and mirth for any audience he can draw - even if it’s just her. But when he thinks no one is looking and the laughter has faded into a distant memory, he allows the curtain to fall. The circles beneath his eyes and the hollow of his cheeks become more pronounced, and in those moments he is not Cicero The Jester, just Cicero The Man. Weary and worn from too many sleepless nights of guarding the Night Mother from some unknown danger, and too many nights of being torn from his dreams by some nameless terror.

Tonight is one of those nights, and when Lumen passes by his room she hears a shuddering gasp, which quickly shifts into delirious laughter. She wonders who he's trying to fool - himself or his family. But Lumen is not so easily deceived. She knows fear when she hears it.

So after a quick trip to the kitchen Lumen finds herself standing in the doorway of Cicero's room, clutching a bottle of wine in her hands. Rather than attempt sleep again, Cicero is flitting around and doing what he can to tidy up. It's almost comical. A jester running back and forth with an armload of ruined books, doing his best to clean a room that's partially caved in.

"I think you're fighting a losing battle," Lumen says, stepping into the room and kicking a rock toward a pile of rubble.

Cicero looks up from his task and smiles, "Cicero thinks Lumen is right, but there isn't much to do once mother has been tended to."

"And sleep is not an option," she says bluntly.

He sets the armload of books on a nearby bookshelf and after a moment he says, "No, no, Cicero has not grown accustomed to the sounds of his new home yet. Hard to sleep with so much noise."

" _Well_ \- I guess that means you have time to share a drink with me," Lumen thumps the wine bottle down on the small dining table in the center of his room and settles into a chair, content to let him think she believes his lie.

He looks at the bottle, then to her, suspicion in his gaze. "Don't we need cups, sister?"

Lumen tugs the cork from the bottle. "No," she says, punctuating her answer by taking a large gulp of wine. "See?" She grins and offers the bottle to Cicero.

For a moment he stares at it as if it might bite him, but then he relents and takes the bottle from her hand. Sinking into a chair on the opposite side of the table he says, "To our health, sister." Then takes a sip - a rather _dainty_ sip - from the bottle.

"You hardly drank any," she complains.

"Cicero savors the flavor, rather than the intoxication."

"To each his own," Lumen says, and takes another long draught from the bottle. Enjoying the way the alcohol warms her body and clouds her mind. She watches Cicero as he leans forward and folds his arms upon the table. His gloved hands resting on his arms and graceful fingers idly, rubbing against his sleeve.

Lumen gives little thought to her next move and she reaches out to run her fingertips over the soft velvet sleeve. When her fingers make contact, Cicero's arm twitches and he sucks in a sharp breath. She halts her study of the material and quickly pulls her hand away from him, "I'm sorry I should've asked-"

Cicero grasps her hand and places it on his arm. "Cicero does not mind," he assures her. "Do you like it?"

"Yes," she breathes, smoothing her hand across his arm, strangely delighted in how she can feel a ripple of muscle as he softly drums his fingers against the tabletop. His eyes are focused on her hand, taking in every movement as it glides across his forearm, slender fingers tracing the outline of a patch he'd sewn into his motley years ago before she pulls away from him.

Lumen tries to appear relaxed, but she can sense the cracks starting to form in her veneer of calm. It's not in her nature to touch so freely, and what might seem like a normal gesture for anyone else is more intimate for her than she'd ever admit to. Cicero's silent stare and manic grin only add to how awkward she feels. After another generous swallow of wine - her mouth had gone quite dry - Lumen clears her throat and decides to break the uncomfortable silence.

"So, uh, the other night in the chapel..." her voice trails off, not certain how to phrase what she wants to say and her mind muzzy on wine not helping matters in the slightest.

"You mean the night stealthy Cicero caught sneaky Lumen?" he chuckles, "Oh that was _fun_.  Cicero has not been on the hunt in so very long, and he misses all the sneaking and stabbing. But he's glad he didn't stab you! No, Cicero will not stab sweet Lumen. Well, not unless he has to."

“Uh- Well, hopefully you won’t have to,” she says nervously. Then, remembering the point of the conversation, she asks, “Cicero, were you in the chapel the _entire_ time?"

“What does Cicero get for indulging your curiosity?" he asks, helping himself to another sip of wine.

"More wine and my undivided attention," she says with a grin.

He hums thoughtfully. “Very well. If you must know, I was in there before you ever came in. Cicero had to keep a watchful eye on mother." Cicero pauses, and casually laces his fingers together. "Why do you ask?”

"I'm impressed," she says, then points to her ears, "These do more than just frame my face, you know. It's not often that someone sneaks up on me. I didn't even hear you."

He looks rather pleased at that. "Oh, Cicero is very good at sneaking."

"Why did you feel the need to guard the Night Mother so closely, isn’t she safe here?"

Cicero is quiet for a moment, carefully gauging his answer. "Cicero was concerned for our Matron's safety at first. Cicero did not know who could be trusted around her."

Lumen narrows her eyes, remembering what he said to her that night. _"She sent you to disrespect our matron, didn't she?"_

"You thought Astrid might do something to her," she says. "Why?"

Cicero looks away from her then, his expression unreadable, and seconds stretch into minutes as the jester remains as silent as Lumen has ever seen him. Without sparing her another glance, or a thought,  he stands and strides over to a shelf to straighten a stack of fallen books.

"Cicero," Lumen stands and walks over to him, determined to get an answer. "You're avoiding my question."

"Humble Cicero is a good Keeper," he says slowly. "Cicero is loyal and Cicero would never disrespect our mistress."

"You don't trust me," she says, and Cicero neither confirms nor denies the accusation. "I'm only curious. I'm not going to say anything to anyone about it."

He turns to face her, "Cicero thinks Lumen should learn to control her curiosity rather than letting it control her."

"I _am_ in control," she snaps, and it does take a fair amount of self control just to keep her voice level.

"It doesn't seem like it," Cicero says, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.

“Well, why wouldn't I be curious about this? It's painted all over your face. Anytime I say her name you twitch or- or frown-"

" _Oh_ ," his voice drops delightfully low for a moment, before climbing back to his usual pitch. "Does Lumen spend a lot of time staring at Cicero?" he asks, leaning close to her so they are nose to nose.

She jerks back, a flush crawling up her neck and to the tips of her ears. "I- you-" she stammers and Cicero's wide grin grows ever-wider, "Don't change the subject."

"But why? Cicero thinks this subject is _much_ more interesting. Just look at those ears..." He runs the tip of his finger along the edge of her pointed ear, and laughs at her involuntary shiver. "Oh, dear. Elf ears are quite sensitive, are they not?”

Lumen bats his hand away. Too flustered to be angry with him and too distracted by the fire burning in her veins. Talos preserve her, this man is surely a daedra in disguise to have such a lascivious effect on her. "They are _extremely_ sensitive, thank you very much." she finally says, completely exasperated with herself.

"Ah, you are welcome, sister." Cicero says, not understanding her sarcasm or just not caring as he runs a finger down the length of the other.

This time Lumen gasps and takes a step away from him. This is beyond embarrassing. She knows the tips of her ears are blazing red and she can feel the flush coloring her cheeks. The predatory grin on Cicero's face is as unsettling as it is enticing at this point and she glances toward the doorway of his room, considering making a run for it before the Fool makes a fool of her.

Cicero takes a step towards her, "Cicero recognizes that look. You are thinking of running away again."

"I-I am not," Lumen says, taking another step backwards, but with each step she takes, he advances. They don't stop until she backs into the table and Cicero boosts himself up on the tips of his toes so that his eyes are level to hers.  He leans in and she can smell the wine on his breath, and feel the heat of his body. Lumen swallows hard as a throb of desire shoots straight to her core.

"Oh, really?" he purrs, "Then why do you back away from sweet Cicero?"

It is both frustrating and exciting how quickly Cicero is able to turn things in his favor, but Lumen doesn't mind too much. Her heart is fluttering and her head spinning from an intoxicating mixture of wine and want. He is _so close_ , and Lumen's fingers curl over the edge of the table, her lips parting in anticipation. She only has to lean forward to close the small distance between them - and she so desperately wants to - but she hesitates, caught in a choking fog of nerves.

Then, just like that, he moves away from her. Taking away the warmth of his body and leaving her with the searing ache of desire coursing through her veins, radiating from the ends of her ears to the tips of her toes. Slowly, she turns her gaze to Cicero, who has re-seated himself and is now watching her with a self-satisfied grin upon his lips.

"Are you well, Lumen? You look a bit flushed," he says, a hint of a chuckle behind his words.

"You little shit," she breathes. Utterly bewildered and torn between slapping him or kissing him - maybe both. He has to know what he's done to her, and how _dare_ he feign ignorance.

He laughs, "Cicero has been called worse."

Lumen is sorely tempted to rise to the challenge and hurl every insult she knows at him, but she manages to reign in her temper. "I'm not surprised," she says, wavering beside the edge of the table, before pushing away from it and moving toward the doorway of his room.

"Where are you going?" he asks, sounding as innocent as a madman possibly can. "There is still plenty of wine left, and Cicero thought sweet Lumen had more questions for him."

She pauses and casts a glare at him, wanting for all the world to verbally eviscerate him. But she knows he's smarter than he lets on - too smart, really - and any argument or accusation she can throw at him would be thrown right back at her, and Lumen is in no mood for Cicero's games.  Especially not in the early hours of the morning with a head full of wine. So, she turns away from him and walks from the room, only to be further agitated by the gales of laughter that follow her out.

Damn him.

* * *

_Her mother has been dead for years, but Lumen is still with Malrian. Sometimes he treats her well; doting upon her as if she's the most precious thing in the world. Other times she is little more than his Bosmeri pet. Vicious and savage and in need of taming. Though, as she's grown older and is just now on the cusp of womanhood, Malrian's ill treatment of her has intensified, and the punishments more vicious than ever before._

_He does not force her to stay and there are no physical binds that keep Lumen tethered to him. There's no challenge in simply throwing her in a cage. Instead, Malrian wraps her in chains which have been forged in the fires of pretty lies, and tempered with ample amounts of fear._

_But she has grown tired of playing the victim to his erratic whims and ever-changing moods. Sometimes she feels despair and other times she feels nothing at all, but tonight-_

_Tonight there is only anger, and Lumen gives little thought to the consequences of her actions as her fingers curl around the hilt of a dagger Malrian keeps at his desk. A small, silver blade used for opening letters and inflicting the occasional punishment on her. But now, it is in her hands, not his._

_She lunges; quick and smooth, pulling her arm back and squeezing the blade tight. But when his eyes flick up to hers, she falters, slicing jaw rather than jugular._

_His grimace of pain grants her a brief, euphoric flutter of victory. But it quickly vanishes when he locks her in his cold, piercing stare. Fishbone thin fingers lift to examine the cut on his face, and the golden glimmer of a healing spell knits the broken flesh together. All that is left of Lumen’s efforts is a bloody stain, which he easily wipes away._

_On the outside, Malrian is as calm as ever. But Lumen knows there is a pulsing rage just beneath the surface. She can see it in the slow, calculating way he smears his blood between his fingers. “You missed, pet,” He says, and despite the smile upon his lips, something in his gaze darkens._

_She watches, immobilized by fear, as tendrils of lightning bloom in the palm of his hand, and the harsh scent of ozone fills the room. A mere flick of his wrist sends the bolt through the air, and it slams into Lumen with such force it knocks her off her feet. The brutal shock of electrical magic forcing its way beneath her skin has Lumen screaming so loud she can swear her throat is tearing. But that pain is nothing compared to the hot, fiery claws ripping through her body; splintering her bones, and twisting her insides._

_Then after what feels like hours, even though it's only been a few seconds, the electric heat fades and a cooling wave of healing magic washes over her. Just enough to caress her wounds, to momentarily soothe the pain until Malrian pulls his magic away and allows the pain to come rushing back. It is yet another one of his favorite torments and Lumen has learned to fear the pulse of healing energy as much as she fears his other spells._

_The spastic twitching of her muscles has her writhing in agony and Lumen presses her forehead against the cool, stone floor. But it offers little relief as hot, sticky blood oozes from her nose and ears, and she wonders if he's finally gone too far and damaged her body beyond what he can heal._

_Though her senses are dampened by blood and pain, she can feel the soft flutter of his robes when he kneels beside her. He is silent when he moves over her, rolling her onto her back and resting his knee upon her stomach. Through blurred vision Lumen can see his lips curling in a sneer, but it is not his anger that she fears - It is the latent lust in his cold, blue eyes that twists her stomach in terror._

_His fingers trace along the contours of her jaw before sliding down and wrapping around her slender neck. "Beg me for forgiveness- for mercy." He says, his voice wavering in the wake of thinly-veiled desire. "And I just might give it."_

_“F-forgive me, I-”  Lumen’s words are cut short when Malrian’s fingernails cut into the tender flesh of her neck._

_“No. Do it right, pet.”_

_She hates him; she hates herself. But the pain is too great and she cannot deny him what he wants. Especially if giving in means a moment of respite. “Master,” she growls, blood pouring from the corner of her mouth as she forces the word out._

_He puts more weight on her, his knee digging painfully into her stomach. “Master what, girl? What are you begging for?” When she hesitates for a moment too long, Malrian snarls, “Say it!”_

_She sucks in a deep, pained breath. Choking on both her shame, and the blood pooling in the back of her throat. Angry tears form in the corners of her eyes when she finally says, “Master, I beg you- forgive me.”_

_Malrian smiles then, smug and sadistic. “Was that so hard? Sometimes I think you enjoy this almost as much as I do.” He purrs, his silky baritone giving rise to the hairs on the nape of her neck._

_Then, the pressure is gone from her stomach and followed by another burst of healing magic. Just enough to heal her more serious, life-threatening injuries and not much else. Lumen curls on her side and watches him glide from the room. Black boots, gilded in gold, beneath a black robe, and a long braid of white hair sways from side-to-side as he vanishes from her sight._

_She lays there, unmoving, and simply waits for his return. She knows this game. Knows what is expected of her._

_Hours later he will come back to her, and he will whisper saccharine promises of love against the shell of her ear. Holding her close as he utters false apologies - all while taking the time to remind her that her punishment had been entirely her fault, and that he hadn’t truly wanted to hurt her. But her rash actions had forced his hand._

_Afterwards, life will return to normal. Lumen will sit on her knees at her master’s side, his hand resting upon the back of her neck, and occasionally rubbing the soft skin there. Eventually drifting down between her shoulder blades, his fingertips meandering beneath the collar of her dress. Seeking flesh and toeing the line between what is decent and what is not - but not crossing it._

_Not yet, anyway._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is a bit of a filler chapter, but I also felt it was necessary. I wanted to develop character relationships a little more and give some more insight into Lumen’s past. I also could not resist the urge to write Cicero being a brat. It’s entirely too much fun. 
> 
> I have the next chapter halfway written, but I admit that I am a little stuck on it. So if there’s anything you guys would like to see more of/less of, now’s the time to let me know. I do love critique! 
> 
> Many thanks to Heiwako and C.Sphire for all their feedback and kind words of encouragement. I also want to thank those of you who have left reviews and kudos on this fic. I hope you continue to enjoy it. :)


	6. Whispers in the Dark

"Care to tell me about your first time?" Astrid asks, falling into step beside Lumen as the two women make their way from Falkreath to the sanctuary. Each carrying baskets full of fresh vegetables, cured meats, and other necessities. The heady odor of wood smoke following after them as they leave the small town behind, but it is soon overpowered by the astringent scent of pine as they travel deeper into the forest.

Lumen shifts the weight of her basket from one hand to the other as she considers Astrid's question. "Which first time? I've had a lot of first times."

Astrid laughs softly. "Your first kill, obviously."

"It was awkward and messy," Lumen answers with a smile. Trying to avoid the question with humor but knowing that she will have to answer her superior sooner or later. Even though Astrid doesn't look like a leader of a group of assassins at the moment. She looks quite normal in a simple, blue dress and with her wavy, blonde hair flowing over her shoulders.

"It usually is," Astrid says, still smiling and still expecting a real answer.

Lumen's smile fades when she admits, "I've never told anyone about it before, so I don't know where to start."

"Start with the basics, then. Did you know this person very well, or did you just pick a random stranger?"

"I'd seen him around often enough, he was -" she pauses, not wishing to tell Astrid that he was one of the guards Malrian had assigned to keep an eye on her. That story is entirely too long and not one she wishes to tell. "He was no one."

"All right, so why did you kill him?" Astrid asks, then with an exasperated sigh she adds, "honestly Lumen, we need to work on your storytelling skills."

Lumen laughs for Astrid's benefit, although there is no true humor behind it as the memory of her first kill rushes back to her, hitting her with all the force of a tidal wave crashing against rocks. "His name was Abrin," she says, ignoring the tremble in her voice as she continues, "my mother had been dead for about a year. But the pain was still fresh and Abrin implied he was going to relieve himself on my mother's grave."

_The hot, high-noon sun blazes overhead, the light catching on the strands of Abrin's golden hair. His cruel laugh lashing through the once peaceful air as he stands over the place where Lumen's mother is buried in the garden. The delicate, twisting limbs of newly grown Nightshade plants have just recently emerged from the soil and are close to budding._

_"I'm sure you won't mind if I go ahead and take a piss right here? Seems a good a place as any."_

_Lumen takes a deep breath, jabbing the end of her shovel into the dirt and leaning on it for support. While she is not allowed to practice alchemy, she is allowed to keep a garden and the task of digging up deep-rooted weeds is made all the more difficult and exhausting when she has to contend with Abrin's near constant harassment._

"He sounds charming," Astrid murmurs, "so how did you do it?"

"With a shovel and a years worth of anger," Lumen says bitterly.

_Rage twists in her stomach when she hears the tell-tale sound of liquid hitting earth and her fingers clench around the handle of the shovel. Lumen grits her teeth, plucking the shovel from the dirt and swinging it through the air with all the strength she can muster. The flat blade smacks into Abrin's head with such force that it knocks him over, then- she's on him._

_With one foot planted firmly on his chest, she drives the sharpened point of the blade down into the flesh of his throat. It tears slightly but the pressure and pain cause Abrin to choke and sputter, and Lumen does not stop. She stabs him over and over again, even when his wet gasps grow quiet and the only sound she can hear is the sickening squelch of mangled flesh against metal. She pauses when the blade of her shovel hits the vertebrae of his neck and can go no further. But she is not satisfied and she slams the blade between the small bones, twisting it until they snap and break apart, the tip of her shovel finally plunging into the blood-soaked earth._

"Were you caught?" Astrid asks.

"No," Lumen says. A lie, but what Astrid doesn't know won't kill her.

_She leans against the shovel, catching her breath and staring down at Abrin's headless corpse. A look of horror lingering on his face, his mouth twitching as the blood drains and his nerves die. Lumen only turns away from him when she feels eyes upon her - Malrian's eyes._

_Malrian's expression is unreadable as he takes in her bloodstained appearance, his gaze sweeping across the remains of his guard and then back to her again. Lumen knows she should be afraid, but she's not. The adrenaline thrumming through her body has chased away all sense of fear. He may kill her for this and she does not care._

_But he doesn't punish her. He doesn't even threaten her. Instead, he smiles softly and says, "come inside, little pet. Let's get you cleaned up."_

"So, what about you?" Lumen asks, wanting to focus on something else. "How did you discover your aptitude for what we do?"

"My uncle made some unwanted advances toward me," Astrid tells her. Then in a tone lighter than Lumen would expect she says, "so I killed him."

"Was there no one you could turn to for help?" Lumen asks.

"No," Astrid shakes her head. "Illness took my mother when I was very young and my father had a farm to run. He didn't need to worry about a problem I could easily solve."

"So how did you kill him?"

"There was a river near my father's farm that I liked to swim in on warm nights. I knew my uncle would often follow me and watch. So that night I called to him, told him I was craving to know the touch of a man and that I wanted it to be him," Astrid laughs, then says, "and of course the horny old goat fell for it. Anyway, once he was in the water I stabbed him to death and let the current carry him away."

The conversation wanes and minutes pass without words. Lumen is content to listen to the rhythmic sounds of their feet crunching against the dirt path and the birds singing overhead until Astrid breaks the relative silence.

"I don't trust Cicero," Astrid says abruptly.

"What's he done now?" Lumen asks, not at all surprised by Astrid's sudden revelation. Truth be told, Lumen isn't certain if she trusts Cicero either. He is definitely loyal to the Dark Brotherhood and there are things about him she likes, but there's so much about him that unsettles her. Like his focused gaze that seems to linger too long at the pulse of her throat, or the way he can move so damn silently, or see right through her lies.

Astrid nods and says, "I think he may be up to something. His behavior is becoming more erratic and he's taken to locking himself away in the chapel for hours on end and talking to someone, but I don't know who."

Lumen shifts the weight of her basket again, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking and it is evident in her voice when she asks, "truly, sister?"

"I'm not accusing you," Astrid says quickly. "This behavior started when you were gone anyway and I knew where you were the past few nights when he locked the chapel up."

"Where was I?" Lumen asks, not entirely comfortable with Astrid keeping tabs on her.

Astrid smirks at her. "Passed out in your bed with an empty bottle of wine."

"Oh," Lumen looks away, slightly embarrassed. "Well, for what it's worth, I doubt Cicero is planning anything more than- uh, whatever jester's plan. Juggling acts, maybe?" she says, hoping to lighten the mood.

Astrid shakes her head, "I doubt it's anything so harmless and that's why I need to ask a favor of you. I need you to find out what Cicero is planning and who he's planning it with."

Lumen bites back a sigh of annoyance. "And you think he'll tell me?"

"No. But if he catches you eavesdropping maybe he'd be less likely to do you any harm. He seems to like you." Astrid says with no small amount of disdain in her voice.

"He seems to like Babette and Festus as well. Why not ask them?"

Astrid lets out a short, exasperated sigh. "Because I am asking _you_ , Lumen."

Lumen does not answer her right away. She knows there's no point in debating with Astrid because she lost this fight before it ever began. Still, she is angry that her superior would offer her the illusion of choice when she never had a choice at all. "Fine," she snaps. Then schools her voice into something more calm - more respectful, "I'll do it."

"Good," Astrid says, smiling. "I knew I could count on you, sister."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon drags on. The day made slower by Lumen's constant agonizing about what Astrid asked her to do. Eavesdropping on Cicero is not going to be a simple task. Lumen can hide in the shadows as well as any assassin, but Cicero is likely to know she's there. Assassins, retired or not, are paranoid by nature and that paranoia tends to keep one's eyes and ears as sharp as any blade.

Lumen waits for Cicero to make his way to the kitchen and collect his dinner before she slips off to the chapel. She doesn't intend to spy on Cicero tonight. But she does need to search the chapel for somewhere to hide - even though Cicero probably knows every nook and cranny of the room by heart.

Lumen can feel a headache coming on. She knows this task is an exercise in futility. But here she is, standing once again in the chapel which looks more-or-less the same as it did the last time she was here. Not that she's paying much attention to her surroundings at the moment.

What draws her attention - what always draws her attention - is the Night Mother's coffin. Despite what happened the last time she crept in here, her curiosity about the Night Mother never waned. She still wants to see her and if Cicero is busy eating dinner, now just might be her chance to finally see the face that inspires such intense devotion in her Keeper.

This is an absurdly foolish thing to do, but that knowledge doesn't stop her from slipping her fingers into the pouch at her hip in search of a lock pick. The lock on the coffin is surprisingly simple for a reliquary that houses such a treasured corpse, and once the tumblers fall into place, the doors swing open with little resistance.

The Night Mother is beautifully preserved. Lumen had expected the corpse to be little more than bones strung together with wire. She did not think she would see skin, teeth and hair. The grotesque sight pulls her closer and she cannot fight the temptation to reach out and touch the desiccated body.

Her fingers gently brush across the remnants of soft, cobweb-thin hair before tracing along the curve of a delicate, Dunmer ear. The giddy thrill of doing something forbidden urges her onward and her fingers bump over the soft groove of an eye socket, then travel down the valley of a cheekbone to a gaping mouth.

Lumen's study of the Night Mother is cut short when she hears footsteps in the hallway, followed by the cheerful humming of the Keeper. A sound that she normally welcomes, but now fills her with dread. If he caught her like _this_...

"Oh, bugger me sideways," she mutters and tries to step away from the coffin, but her feet feel as heavy as stone and she cannot move. It is as if the air around her has solidified and time itself has stilled. Warm, ethereal hands caress Lumen's face, thumbs feathering across her cheekbones with all the adoration a mother has for a daughter. A feeling of absolute, undying love pours over her when the Night Mother finally speaks.

_"Be still, child. For my loyal Keeper will not harm you. We have both waited so long for you, my daughter, who caresses me so sweetly. You are my Listener and I shall give you all the blood you see fit to spill."_

Lumen's head swims. The sweet croon of the Night Mother's otherworldly voice is intoxicating, as is the gentle heat which seems to radiate from the coffin.

" _The Black Sacrament has been performed and I have heard my child's prayer. In Volunruud, there is a man named Amaund Motierre. Go speak with him. But first, you must prove yourself to my Keeper. Tell him; darkness rises when silence dies."_

The pleasant sensation of the Night Mother's presence dissipates and Lumen plummets back to reality. Her legs folding beneath her and her knees hitting the stone floor. Behind her, there is a sharp intake of breath and she can practically feel the anger coming off of Cicero in waves.

"You- you have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother's coffin!" Cicero shrieks. The temper behind his shrill voice sending a chill down her spine, and she turns to see him pulling his dagger from the sheath at his hip. "Cicero told you to get that curiosity of yours under control, didn't he?" He draws his thumb across the edge of his ebony blade. "Oh, Cicero hopes you have a good explanation for this."

Lumen gets to her feet, her muscles coiled and taut, ready to fight or flee. Words do not come easily as she is still dazed from what had only happened moments before. "Cicero, the Night Mother. She- uh- spoke to me."

The words she thought would bring Cicero joy only serve to rile him. He lunges, and she tries to move away, but Cicero is more nimble than she gives him credit for. In a blur of red and black, and a hard hit to her shoulder, Lumen is slammed against the stone wall. Pain gnaws at her back while a cold blade is pressed against her throat.

"Liar!" He snarls. The tip of the blade breaks her skin, drawing forth a trickle of blood, "Cicero may be a fool, but he is _not_ an idiot!"

Terror floods her, chasing away the sticky remnants of the Night Mother's spell. "Cicero, wait- _wait_! She said 'Darkness rises when silence dies.'"

His amber eyes grow wide, the blade easing from her flesh as the Night Mother's words fall from her lips. "She said that?" he asks, taking a step away from Lumen, "She said those words... _to you_?"

"She did," Lumen gasps, and presses her hand over the raw cut at her throat.

"Those are the words. The binding words. Mother's only way of speaking to sweet Cicero," he smiles at her, and it's not his usual, almost permanent smirk, or the cheeky grin he wears when telling a joke. But a real, genuine smile. Too bright and too warm to be a lie. "You- Mother has chosen you to be her Listener! Oh, she has chosen well, she has!" Cicero laughs, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking so fiercely happy that it's almost frightening.

Lumen, however, is not happy. Not that being the Listener is a problem. Playing the role of a glorified, supernatural messenger is easier than that of legendary dragon slayer. She can listen. That she can do. But what she cannot do is tell Astrid about this. Well- not yet. This news would have to be delivered very delicately, and in order to do that Lumen is going to have to convince the capering jester to keep quiet about this turn of events.

"Cicero-"

"Yes, Lumen? Do you have a task for Cicero? Just say the word and he will do anything you ask. Sharpen your daggers, or tend to your armor, or - why do you glare at poor Cicero? _Oh_ , Cicero understands. You have something else in mind... Something of a more carnal nature?" he asks with a comical waggle of his eyebrows.

She sighs and slowly drags a hand down her face, "Will you please be quiet?"

"Of course, of course! Cicero will be as silent as the grave!"

"Good, now listen-"

"Oh that is funny! The Listener wants Cicero to listen!"

"Shut. Up." she growls, and Cicero does go silent then, even clamping a hand over his mouth for good measure. Lumen takes a deep breath to calm herself and says, "This Listener business needs to stay between us for now. You can't tell anyone, do you understand?"

Cicero looks at Lumen as if she just sprouted a second head. "What? Oh, surely you _jest_. This is great news, wonderful news! Everyone will be so pleased to know Mother has finally chosen a Listener after all this time."

Lumen folds her arms across her chest. "Yeah, well, Astrid isn't going to be pleased."

"What, pray tell, am I not going to be pleased about?" Astrid asks.

Lumen's heart sinks when she turns to see Astrid standing in the doorway of the chapel, with her hands on her hips and a suspicious frown settling over her face.

"Oh, mistress!" Cicero spins around to face Astrid, "Guess what? She's back! Our Lady is back! The Night Mother has finally spoken after all these years!"

Astrid ignores him, crossing the room and approaching Lumen. "Are you all right? I got here as soon as I heard all the commotion." Astrid's expression softens when Lumen answers with a nod. "Well? What has he been planning? Who's he been talking to?"

"Oh, Cicero was not talking to anyone. No one except for the Night Mother from time-to-time, but she never spoke to poor Cicero. But she did speak to _her_!" he chirps, pointing at Lumen. Wisely taking a couple steps away from the women when they both glare at him.

"What in the Void is he babbling about?" Astrid asks.

"The- uh, well-" Lumen is completely thrown off balance. She'd wanted time to think about how to say this to Astrid. "The Night Mother spoke to me."

Astrid goes completely still, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence she says, "You're joking."

"I'm not," Lumen admits.

"I see," Astrid says. Her voice calm and empty, "So? What did she say, then?"

"She gave me a contract. Said a man named Amaund Motierre has performed the sacrament and he's waiting for us in Volunruud."

Astrid nods, "I know of Volunruud. It's an old Nordic ruin somewhere in the Pale. But this Motierre- That's not a name I'm familiar with."

"Should I go talk to him?" Lumen asks.

"No!" Astrid snaps, "I set up the contracts, so if anyone talks to Motierre it'll be me." The taller woman takes another step closer to Lumen, looming over her, "And furthermore, the Night Mother may have spoken to you, but that doesn't change the fact that this is still my sanctuary and you take your orders from me. I'll not have my authority dismissed just because some withered corpse decided you are worth talking to."

Lumen bristles at Astrid's words, and behind her she can hear an indignant gasp from Cicero. But he says nothing and Lumen is grateful for that. Astrid's patience did not need to be tested any further.

"I need time to think about this," Astrid runs a hand through her hair and she walks away from Lumen. She stops just short of the chapel doors and says, "We'll discuss this later. Just- leave me alone for a while."

Once Astrid is gone, Cicero grins at Lumen. "She took that rather well, all things considered."

"I wanted to be the one to tell her, Cicero. In my own way and in my own time."

"Bah," he tuts, "You mean you wanted to drag it out and positively wallow in indecisiveness," and at Lumen's frown Cicero shrugs, "Better to just get it all out in the open."

"If you say so," she murmurs, casting a quick glance at the Night Mother and walking to one of the stone benches in front of the coffin. She flops down on it with a weary sigh, feeling suddenly very alone. Cicero is probably the only person in the sanctuary who will speak to her after news of this little fiasco gets out. The others will think she's insane or that she's trying to knock Astrid off her pedestal.

Cicero slides onto the bench beside her, bumping her leg with his. "Do not look so dismal, Lumen. Astrid is just jealous. She probably wanted to be the Listener, and who could blame her? Such an honor it would be to hear Mother's voice. Cicero admits, he is jealous as well."

"You are?"

"Well... Yes, I am. Cicero tried so very hard to listen, but Mother never spoke to me," he says, looking sullen for a moment before perking up again, and waving his hand to dismiss the subject. "Ah, that doesn't matter now. So tell me, Listener, is there anything you need? Humble Cicero is always eager to serve."

Lumen idly curls a strand of hair around her finger, knowing that what she truly needs is something Cicero can't help her with. "I really need to kill someone."

"Anyone in particular?" he asks, looking a little too eager.

She eyes him warily, "Not really. I think I'll ask Nazir if he has any work," Lumen says, pushing away from the stone bench and bidding Cicero goodnight.

A contract is exactly what she needs to feel normal again. The Night Mother's voice had left her so peaceful and calm. But that peace has been scattered like ashes on the wind thanks to Astrid's scathing glares and bitter words. Now, Lumen is left with a ravenous clawing in her head, as if there is a beast inside her baying for blood. She knows this feeling well. It means trouble is on the horizon, waiting to take control of her if she allows it - and she wants to. She so desperately wants to lose herself in a dizzying rush of bloodshed. To find the solace that only a sharp blade and a bound victim can provide.

So with that desire in mind, Lumen goes in search of Nazir. Her mood darkening as she passes through the sanctuary. Everything had been going so well. She'd settled in to her role as an assassin far better than she ever would've hoped. But now that the Night Mother has spoken - and spoken to her, rather than Astrid - everything is going to change.

Lumen finds Nazir in the warm kitchen, in his usual seat at the dining table, a book in one hand and a glass of Colovian brandy in the other.

"Need something?" he asks, not bothering to look up from his book.

"I need to get out of here for a while," she tells him, unable to hide the desperate edge in her voice. "Please tell me you have some work, otherwise I might aimlessly wander around the forest for a few hours."

"I thought that's what Bosmer liked to do," Nazir grins, then says, "But if you're looking for a challenge, I have a contract for a vampire by the name of Hern. Interested?"

Lumen nods. "Just tell me where to find him."

"You won't need to travel far. He lives down at Half-Moon Mill, which is located just outside of Falkreath. He's never far from his female companion so you'll probably have to deal with her as well."

"Two vampires? Why Nazir, I thought you said this would be challenging."

"Don't be so facetious," he says shortly. "If you die it'll be a waste of a perfectly good assassin, so for Sithis' sake, watch yourself out there."

Lumen blinks, then slowly smiles at the rare compliment. His caustic humor chasing away her sour mood. "I didn't know you cared."

Nazir breathes a long, suffering sigh. "I don't. But if you're not here to distract the clown, he'll start pestering me even more than he already does."

* * *

Lumen passes through the black door and steps into the night. The pleasant, yet indefinable scent of foliage and loam stir in the damp air as a thick fog moves the forest. Clouds heavy with the promise of rain blot out the heavens and shroud the viridian landscape in darkness. It's the perfect night for a hunt.

The black door opens behind her, firelight spilling out and dispelling the gloom of the moonless night. She catches a glimpse of a red and black motley before the door shuts, swathing her in darkness once again.

"What do you want?" she asks, her voice more sharp than she means for it to be.

Cicero knocks her elbow with his own when he reaches her, and says, "Cicero wants to come with you."

Whatever she'd been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn't that. "Why?" she asks, utterly perplexed by his sudden interest in accompanying her on a simple contract. "Wait- I thought you were retired."

"Technically," he admits with a shrug. "But Mother has been tended to and poor Cicero has nothing at all to do. Retirement can be rather dull at times."

"I usually work alone," Lumen says, but she does feel a rather annoying pang of pity for the man. She wouldn't want to sit around the sanctuary all day and all night either. "But I suppose there's no harm in letting you tag along. Just be quiet and stay out of my way."

"Oh, of course! This is all rather exciting, is it not? The Keeper and the Listener, sneaking silently through the Stygian shadows-"

"Cicero."

"Yes?"

"Be quiet."

Cicero squeaks, struggling to keep whatever he wants to say internalized. But he does fall silent, and once Lumen is convinced that he intends to stay that way, the pair make their way through the forest.

They move through the trees without a sound. Their footsteps muffled by the spongy pine needles and rotten leaves that cover the forest floor. The pair take cover in a thicket a short distance from the mill. The outline of the homestead is barely visible through the heavy fog, which has grown more dense as they neared the lake.

"I don't see any light coming from the house," she whispers, crouching behind a tree. "Perhaps they're asleep?"

"Or no one is home," Cicero says, sinking to his knees beside her. "I overheard your conversation with Nazir. The target is a vampire, correct? Then it's possible he and his companion are hunting, just as we are."

A prickle of embarrassment washes over her. She'd been so obsessed with getting out of the sanctuary she didn't stop to consider _what_ she is hunting. "Shit," she hisses under her breath. "I didn't even think about that."

"Cicero knows," he says lightly, as if he is hesitant to admit it. "That is why I came with you."

Lumen snorts. "You came with me so you could show me the error of my ways?"

"No, no. It was obvious that Lumen's mind was elsewhere and it would not do for the Listener to be killed so soon. Cicero has only just found you, after all."

Lumen lets out a short, irritated sigh. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Cicero does not doubt that," he says slowly, moving closer to Lumen's side. "But a little extra protection never hurt anyone."

"I don't need protection," she snaps.

"Oh, Cicero thinks you do," he mutters darkly.

Lumen's stomach jumps in fear. Unnerved by the tone of his voice and even more so at the sight of his hand going to his blade. "Wh- what are you-" she pauses when she notices that his gaze is fixed on something just over her shoulder and not on her at all. She turns to look behind her and is greeted by two pairs of glowing, red eyes.

Cicero springs forward, the fog curling around him as he advances on the vampires. His laughter pealing through the once silent forest, and disturbing a flock of birds roosting in the trees. The female vampire lunges at Cicero, but he evades her with all the confidence and grace of a seasoned assassin. He ducks behind her, and a look of deranged rapture flickers across his face as he slices her throat open.

Lumen had expected blood - she had _hoped_ for it - but she did not expect a foul, black ichor to issue forth from the vampire's wounds. There is no spray, as would happen when severing the artery of a living creature, but a thick, oozing liquid. It is blood, but it is old and it wreaks of the sickly, sweet odor of rotten meat.

Hern roars in fury at the sight of his fallen companion. Careless with rage, he ignores Lumen and instead charges at Cicero. But Cicero is quick, and he effortlessly dances away from Hern, easily staying out of his reach so Lumen can close in. The vampire does not even realize she is near until the blade of her dagger surges upwards and pierces the underside of his jaw, lodging deep with his skull. She twists the blade before yanking it free and Hern crumples to the ground.

"Well- that could have gone better," Lumen says, as she kneels down to clean her blade on Hern's tunic. "But it could have gone much worse," she doesn't look up at Cicero when he approaches. "So, um- thank you."

"It was no trouble," he says, stopping a short distance from her.

"You know, I-"

"-don't need protection," Cicero interrupts, his words clipped with annoyance. "Even though Lumen failed to notice the two vampires advancing at her back."

"I wasn't going to say that," Lumen says irritably. She stands, sheathing her clean blade with more force than necessary and stalks toward Cicero. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his dagger, but he makes no move to draw it as she nears. A short, tense silence hangs between them before Lumen sighs, and when she speaks again her voice is so soft she barely recognizes it as her own.

"I was going to say that I really needed _this_ \- this kill and-" she leans close to him, placing her hand on his chest, just above his heart, which is still racing from the rush of adrenaline. "The feeling that comes after..."

Cicero's jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, then at last he relaxes and says, "Cicero understands that need all too well."

She meets Cicero's gaze. His dark eyes watching her with unhidden curiosity. He tips his head up, brushing his nose against hers and Lumen isn't certain if he does it on purpose or not. But that small, seemingly insignificant action tears what's left of her restraint to shreds. She surges forward, crushing her lips against his and sliding her fingers into his hair.

Cicero's mouth opens under hers, groaning softly and wrapping a hand around the back of her neck and the other gripping her by the belt, and yanking her hips against his. Lumen nips at his lip and Cicero responds by whirling her around, and pressing her up against the wide trunk of a pine tree. There is no hesitancy in his movements and no tenderness. But Lumen did not expect Cicero - of all people - to be gentle. His frenzied kisses leave her weak in the knees, and his hands hold onto her with all the bruising desperation of a man who's been lonely for far too long.

One hand slides to her thigh and Cicero brings her leg to rest on his hip as he presses his body even closer to hers. His other hand twining in Lumen's hair and gripping hard enough to pull a small, eager moan from her. Cicero answers with a growl that reverberates deep in his chest and - oh, sweet Dibella - he's doing something _delicious_ with his hips. But beyond the veil of her closed eyes she swears she sees something flash, though she doesn't know if it's real or simply a result of his touch. She opens her eyes and slowly pulls away. His teeth catching her bottom lip before finally - reluctantly - releasing her from his hold.

Another flash snaps Lumen out of her lust-filled haze, and her attention is drawn to a storm swelling in the distance, just beyond the tree-filled hills. The sight of it is enough to give rise to the delicate hairs on the nape of her neck, as the cold wash of fear douses the pleasant heat Cicero's kisses had left behind.

Cicero is watching her again, his brows pinched in concern. "Is something wrong?"

"A storm," she says, appalled at how rattled she is. "We should go back home." Lumen has been caught in storms before, and she does not mind the thunder or the rain, but she will always fear the lightning.

"Now?" he asks, sounding more than a little disappointed. "The storm probably won't be here for another half hour at least." Another flash, followed by a distant roar of thunder causes Lumen to jump, and Cicero does not fail to notice. His lips stretch into a grin, followed by a giddy chuckle. "Is the great and powerful Listener afraid of storms?"

"I'm not afraid of storms, I- I just don't want to be caught in the rain. It takes forever for this armor to dry out." Her lie falls flat, she knows it and Cicero knows it. But he doesn't question her further.

Instead, he gently lowers her leg from his hip, his other hand tracing the curve of her cheek before pulling away. "Well, if you want to get home in time to miss the first teeny, tiny drops of rain, then we must hurry."

Lumen smiles weakly and nods, and Cicero locks his arm with hers for the walk home. His cheerful voice almost drowning out the rumbling thunder in the distance as he tells her a joke about a man and his very unfortunate-looking wife for the umpteenth time. The punchline doesn't come as a surprise after hearing it so many times, but she laughs anyway, comforted by the familiarity of the joke and the company of the murderous madman at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a lot happening in this chapter compared to the last one. I want to thank Heiwako and CSphire for their helpful feedback, critiques and support. :) Thanks to everyone who has stopped by to leave kudos or comments! Your support keeps me inspired!


	7. The Silence is Broken

"Oh, thank the gods," Lumen says as she and Cicero enter the sanctuary. The Keeper's jokes and riddles had kept her blessedly distracted from the storm that was closing in on them, but she is still glad to be home at last. Cicero tried to convince her to wait out the storm in the house that belonged to the recently dispatched vampires, but Lumen had told him that she'd feel more comfortable underground.

"Did you think we would not make it?" Cicero asks, sounding indignant. "I told you we would! In fact, I told you exactly five times that we would make it home in time."

"Four of those five times were unnecessary."

"Yes, well- Lumen seemed as if she needed a little reassurance and sweet Cicero reassured," he purrs from behind her, close enough that his breath tickles her ear. "You should have told Cicero that you were made of moon sugar and would melt in the rain."

Lumen scoffs, but the smile does not leave her face. That is, until she and Cicero descend the stone staircase and see Astrid standing near her desk. Lumen stops in her tracks, and Cicero almost runs into her back but he skirts around her at the last minute.

Astrid approaches the two of them, though her eyes are fixed on Lumen. "Go pack your things," she says tersely. "We leave for Volunruud at first light." Then, without another word, she turns away and strides back into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

"Ah, Volunruud… That is where the contact is waiting yes? Funny that a person wishing for death would be waiting for an assassin in a tomb. How very poetic! Cicero likes this Motierre fellow, yes he does." Cicero follows behind Lumen, chattering away as they make their way through the sanctuary and to the hallway that leads to the communal sleeping area. Lumen stops just outside the doorway and turns to face Cicero. His smile fades when he sees the uneasy frown settling over her face.

"I'm a little worried about meeting the contact," she admits, not able to meet his eyes. "What if he isn't there?"

"Oh, have a little faith, Listener! You heard our Lady's words, did you not? Mother will not lead you to your death so soon after choosing you," Cicero chuckles, though his brow does wrinkle in concern. Clearly he is thinking the same thing Lumen is. If Motierre is not in the tomb, Astrid will probably kill her.

Lumen picks at a loose stitch in her armor. "Faith never did me any good in the past."

"Perhaps it will serve you well in the present," Cicero says, bending to meet Lumen's eyes since she won't look at him. She smiles for his benefit, though her good mood has dissipated with the news that she will be traveling with Astrid tomorrow. Lumen had entertained the thought of picking up where she and Cicero left off in the forest, but at this very moment, she certainly didn't feel like it. Her mind is too preoccupied with worry.

" _Way to kill the mood, Astrid. Thanks for that."_ Lumen thinks bitterly, then says, "I guess I should try to sleep, though I doubt I'll be able to."

"Oh, yes, of course!" Cicero chirps. "Get some rest, We will talk when you return. This will be the first official contract the Brotherhood has done in years, maybe the first one ever for _this_ sanctuary, and Cicero will be very excited to hear all about it!"

However lacking her faith may be, at least Cicero has enough for the both of them. After bidding him goodnight, Lumen attempts to sleep, but it does not come. The weight of what the next day might bring weighs heavy on her shoulders, slowly tightening around her neck like a hangman's noose. If Volunruud is empty, she will have to run. That thought brings her more pain than she expects. After spending so much of her life running away, it had been nice to have somewhere to run to.

* * *

The Pale is as cold and miserable as ever, though it's almost warm compared to Astrid's glacial demeanor. Most of their journey has passed in relative silence, with only a few words spoken here and there. The uncomfortable silence has given Lumen plenty of time to think, though she would rather not. Whenever she's inundated with uncomfortable thoughts she usually erases them with copious amounts of drink or whatever seedy potion she can get her hands on, but she doesn't have access to either of those at the moment.

It's not often that another person worms their way into Lumen's thoughts, but Cicero has done just that. The memory of the kiss they shared in the forest demands her attention. She'd wanted to do that for a while, and she was so tired of resisting. Not that she has any real reason to resist. There are no rules about fraternization in the Brotherhood; Astrid and Arnbjorn are married, and Babette had once gleefully told Lumen about the time she stumbled across Gabriella and Nazir in a rather _private_ moment.

She is pulled from her thoughts when Astrid slows Shadowmere to a trot so Lumen's horse can catch up with them. Rather than sharing a horse for the entire journey, Lumen had purchased a new horse at the Whiterun stables. The tension between Lumen and Astrid has been so strong that even Shadowmere seemed agitated, and putting some distance between them has relieved some of that.

"We're getting close, but we need to leave the main road. Try to keep up," Astrid says, not bothering to look up from her map.

Lumen nods, her eyes scanning the horizon as she follows Astrid. Off in the distance she sees a very familiar windmill and a very familiar farm - the Loreius farm. Where she met Cicero all those weeks ago. She can't help but smile at the memory of the frustrated jester dancing around his broken wagon, but her smile fades when she remembers who else she met that day. So much has happened to her between that day and now that she'd forgotten all about the farmer's beautiful, Altmer wife. Oh, it really has been too long since Lumen had a proper victim. The thought of spending hours with the lovely Altmer and drawing out her pain for her own pleasure is intoxicating. Utterly and completely dominating her and controlling the precise moment she breathes her last.

The temptation to leave Astrid behind and ride to the farm is almost too much, but she manages to tear her eyes away from the windmill, preferring to watch Astrid ride ahead of her instead. Lumen kicks at her horse, urging him to carry her further away from the farm and closer to Volunruud. If she makes it out of the tomb without a knife in her back, she'll be sure to plan a visit to the farmer's wife.

It does not take long for Lumen and Astrid to arrive at Volunruud, and her heart sinks at the sight of it. There are no tracks leading to the mound and there are no horses. There is absolutely nothing to indicate that anyone is inside, and once they enter the tomb and find no one in the main chamber, the situation seems all the more bleak.

"Well, _Listener_. I don't see anyone here," Astrid says, sounding almost pleased.

"Maybe they're off in one of the side-chambers," Lumen suggests, trying to think. If she were going to wait in a ruin, which are normally infested with draugr and all manner of nasty creatures, where would she wait? Certainly not in the deepest depths of the tomb. It would have to be somewhere close, but closed off and safe. "There," she says, pointing to the small chamber closest to the main entrance, "let's try this one first."

She pushes the door open and inside they find two men, one in heavy armor and the other dressed in fine clothes and - thank the Night Mother - a recently completed Black Sacrament.

Lumen and Astrid share a glance, then Astrid asks, "Are you Amaund Motierre?"

The Breton gasps and steps forward, much to the dismay of his Imperial bodyguard. "By the almighty divines! This dreadful Black Sacrament thing actually worked!"

"You have opened a door to darkness, Motierre," Astrid purrs, attempting to sound confident.

Motierre grins at her. "Oh, I know. I know. But I am so glad you're finally here. I would like to arrange a contract. Several, actually. I daresay, the most important work your organization has had in, well- centuries."

"Indeed?" Astrid folds her arms. "Go on, then. You have my full attention."

"Good. As I said, I want you to kill several people. You'll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I'm sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable. But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target. The real reason I'm speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of the Emperor."

Lumen can tell that Astrid is just as surprised as she is, but Astrid clears her throat and says, "Leaders rise and fall. Business is business."

"Oh, wonderful. You don't know how happy I am to hear you say that. So much has led to this day. So much planning, and maneuvering. It's as if the very stars have finally aligned. But I digress. Here, take these to your, um- superior." Motierre says, and his bodyguard steps forward, handing Astrid a sealed letter, along with a very large, expensive-looking amulet. "The letter will explain everything that needs to be done. The amulet is quite valuable. You can use it to pay for any and all expenses."

Astrid pockets the items. "Where can we contact you? I doubt you will be staying here any longer."

Motierre snorts. "You are right about that, assassin. Rexus and I will be at the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. You may contact me there, but for Mara's sake, please be discreet."

"I understand the value of discretion, Motierre." Astrid says, sounding annoyed. "We'll be in touch."

Astrid is silent as they leave the crypt and it is only when they near their horses that Astrid turns to Lumen and pulls her in for a crushing hug. "By Sithis, if I hadn't seen Motierre and the sacrament with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it. But-" she steps away from Lumen, holding her by the shoulders with a brilliant smile on her face. "If we pull this off the Dark Brotherhood will know a fear and respect it hasn't seen in centuries."

Breathless, and utterly relieved that her superior is once again pleased with her rather than livid, Lumen asks, "so, we're really going to do this?"

"You're damn right we are! Do you think I'd abandon and opportunity to lead my family to glory?" Astrid walks away from Lumen, patting Shadowmere on the neck before hauling herself atop the horse and settling on the saddle.

Lumen shakes her head, smiling. "So what's next?" she asks, stepping toward her own horse.

"We're going to Riften. We need to get this amulet appraised. I have a friend there, he's a fence, and he can tell us all we need to know. So hurry up and get on- uh- what did you name your horse?"

"I didn't," Lumen says, gripping her horse by the reigns and settling on the saddle. "But I think I'll call him Felix."

"How very Imperial."

"It means 'lucky'." While Cicero might chide her for not having faith, and he might claim that the will of Sithis kept Motierre waiting in that tomb after who knows how many days. Lumen knows that she is damn lucky to be leaving Volunruud in one piece.

"I like it. So are you ready to go?"

"I'm ready."

* * *

The Ratway is aptly named. It's damp and disgusting, full of insects, skeevers, and well- _rats_. Grit drifts in the thick, murky air and moisture clings to the stone walls, making them shiny and slick. The Ragged Flagon is little better. The scent of leather, sweat, and mead hang heavy in the stagnant air, but it's almost pleasant compared to the reek of sewage which permeates rest of the Ratway.

"Now there's a face I haven't seen in a while," purrs a bald, Breton man with a thick High Rock accent. He and Astrid embrace, and Lumen watches the exchange with interest. They stay connected for far too long, and his hands drift a little too low for this to be just a simple hug between friends. After a moment, the man pulls away from Astrid and asks, "Come to see me for business or for pleasure?"

"Just business today," Astrid says, before turning to Lumen. "Go have a drink while I talk to Delvin. This won't take long."

Lumen doesn't need to be told twice, and she steps up to the bar to order a tankard of mead. She is barely able to hide her revulsion when the man behind the counter cleans her tankard by spitting in it, then wiping it down before filling it with mead. He places the drink in front of her and Lumen can't help but scowl down into it.

"Don't worry lass, Vekel doesn't have anything contagious," comes a voice to her left, and she looks up to see a handsome, red haired Nord smiling down at her.

"That's good to know- hey, I know you! I've seen you in the market hocking those shady potions."

"Shady!" the Nord laughs, and places his hand over his heart. "You wound me, lass. I only sell genuine Falmer blood elixirs."

Lumen wrinkles her nose. "Who would want to drink Falmer blood anyway?"

"You'd be surprised," he murmurs. "So you're one of Astrid's, right?"

"Who wants to know?" she asks, sparing a glance at the table where her superior and Delvin discuss business. Although, truth be told, it looks more like they are flirting than discussing the cost of the amulet.

The man seems pleased by the invitation to introduce himself. "Name's Brynjolf. And you are?" Lumen hesitates to speak, and he presses on. "Oh, come on lass. Our organizations work together from time to time, so we may as well be on a first name basis."

"My name is Lumen," she tells him, finding it difficult not to be swayed by his charm. She's always been partial to redheads, but his eyes are a little too warm and kind for her tastes.

"Well, Lumen, you should come find me if you ever want a job with a little less bloodshed and a lot more coin."

"Uh- I'll keep that in mind," she says, amused. Unable to imagine herself settling well into a life as a thief - it's much easier to take someone's things after you kill them. Lumen finally chances a sip of mead when she feels a gentle tug at her elbow, and she glances to her right to see Astrid standing beside her, telling her that it's time to go. Lumen says a quick goodbye to Brynjolf and follows Astrid out of the Ragged Flagon.

The two women spend the night at the Bee and Barb before taking to the road again. Both are eager to go home and share the exciting news with their family: they are going to kill the Emperor of Tamriel, and they are going to be rolling in Septims when all is said and done.

* * *

When the two assassins arrive home, Astrid calls everyone to the kitchen to make the announcement, which is met with a mixture of disbelief and elation. This is the biggest contract the Brotherhood has taken on in years and Nazir decides it's something worth celebrating. Soon, he's pouring everyone a glass of Stros M'Kai Rum. Even Arnbjorn seems happy, the hard edges of his near-constant scowl softening as the night, and everyone's overall sobriety, wears on.

Lumen sips at her rum. Content to sit quietly and listen to her family regale each other with tales of past contracts. Astrid and Gabriella discuss the time a man named Gaston Bellefort broke into the sanctuary. But he was caught by Veezara and subsequently fed to Babette's pet frostbite spider, Lis. Arnbjorn, Festus, Nazir and Veezara have involved themselves in a rather raucous game of cards, which Babette watches with mild curiosity. Everyone is here, except for Cicero, who is suspiciously absent. Lumen can hardly believe that Cicero would miss an impromptu party.

She slips away from the gathering, glad to be away from the heat of the kitchen. The rest of the sanctuary is blessedly cool in comparison, and the chilly air helps to clear her muzzy head. After a short walk through the sanctuary, Lumen finds Cicero in the chapel, humming to himself as he dusts the Night Mother's coffin.

"Hey," she says, leaning against the door frame. "You're missing all the fun."

Cicero doesn't answer immediately. Instead he neatly folds the dust cloth and tucks it back into a pouch on his belt. For a moment, Lumen thinks he didn't hear her. But then, without looking at her, he says, "Cicero will live."

The bite in his words surprises her, and even through the soothing haze of drunkenness Lumen feels a little uncomfortable. "You're angry," she says simply. "Why?"

He looks at her, and there is so much bitterness in his gaze. Cicero takes a step toward her, then another, until he has closed the distance between them. He's close enough that she can feel the heat of his breath ghosting across her lips. His glare is intimidating most of the time, but from two inches away it's almost terrifying.

"Cicero has been thinking," he says slowly, as if he's desperately trying to keep his temper in check. "And I wonder how long you would have let Motierre wait."

"What are you talking about?" Lumen stammers, utterly confused.

"I think you were waiting for Astrid's approval." He pauses, watching her reaction. "I think you would have ignored Mother's words if Astrid ordered you to do so."

Lumen is taken aback by Cicero speaking in first person. His jester persona momentarily falling to the wayside can't be a good sign. "T-that's not true at all!" she says, pressing her shoulder against the door frame for support and wishing she wasn't so tipsy. "Why in Oblivion are you angry about this? We talked to Motierre _and_ we accepted the contract. Everything is fine, Cicero."

"Everything is _not_ fine!" he snaps, folding his arms across his chest. "Not when the Listener is content to lay at the Pretender's feet! Perhaps if you are lucky, she will trade her sheepdog for a lapdog."

Lumen sucks in a breath. Cicero's words unknowingly striking an old, still open wound. Lapdog. _Pet_. "You go too far, Keeper," she growls.

"Why? Because I speak the truth?" he asks, and Lumen shoves him. Hard enough that he takes a step backwards, but he grabs her wrists and pulls her to him. His voice dropping low when he says, "Humble Cicero only wants the Listener to be aware of the viper in her midst. You have threatened Astrid's hold on this sanctuary whether you wish to acknowledge it or not, and it is only a matter of time before she strikes at you."

Lumen says nothing, and Cicero continues, "The Night Mother chose you, a mere initiate, to be her Listener, and whether the others believe it matters little. They will come around. But just by leading Astrid to Moteirre, and to the most important contract the Dark Brotherhood has had in centuries, you have brought her authority into question. Perhaps the others will not say it, but Cicero can see it. They are questioning her and _she_ knows it."

Lumen rests her head against Cicero's shoulder, fighting off a sudden wave of dizziness. The room spinning violently from the alcohol, and from the severity of what he's telling her. "Well that wasn't my intention."

"It does not matter what your intentions were, dear sister. All that matters is that you have set something in motion. Change is on the horizon." Cicero pauses, then in a lighter tone he says, "Lumen, please do not be sick on poor Cicero... This is his favorite shirt."

"I'm not going to be sick," she says, then sighs, "I'd like to sit down, though."

Cicero helps Lumen over to one of the unbroken stone benches, and nervously hovers around her. "Should Cicero get a bucket just in case?"

"No. I'm just a little dizzy," she explains. Then wonders if it's considered bad form to throw up in front of the Night Mother. "Would you sit down? Your hovering isn't helping."

At her request, Cicero sits down on the far end of the bench, keeping his distance. His eyes focused on the floor when he says, "Cicero made you angry."

"Let's just drop the subject for now."

"No. This is important." he says firmly, much to Lumen's surprise. "Cicero made Lumen angry, but Cicero was angry because he is- _concerned_." He leans close to her, and says, "promise Cicero that you will be on your guard around the Pretender."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever makes you happy." Lumen says, waving her hand dismissively. "You shouldn't call her that, though."

"Oh, do not worry. Cicero will not call her that name, or any of the other names he has for her, to her face."

"I guess that's good enough."

They sit in companionable silence for a time. Cicero hums a soft tune and admires the candlelight flickering across the golden gilding of his boots. Lumen watches him, her eyes half hidden by her unbound hair, as she considers what he said to her earlier. She's never seen him so angry and something tells her that she should take his words to heart, but she so desperately wants to believe that things will be all right with Astrid.

The sparse candlelight casts deep shadows along the hollow of his cheeks, amplifying the curve of his hard cheekbones and the sharpness of his jaw. Lumen always found his strong Imperial features attractive, but it's difficult for her to focus on them when her eyes are drawn to the tendons in his neck, the bob of his throat, and the way his hair spills across his shoulders like rivulets of blood. She drags in a breath, ragged with a hunger that none of the Dark Brotherhood contracts could ever sate.

When she joined the Brotherhood, she'd hoped the contracts would distract her from her fixation with killing Altmer, and in a way, they had. Right up until she and Astrid passed by the Loreius farm. Ever since then, the desire to kill has become intolerable. She is at least a half-day's ride away, but Lumen can't wait. The urge is too strong, and she's afraid if she tries to suppress it any longer she might hurt someone. A brother or a sister, or Cicero. That thought is sobering, and she stands so suddenly that even Cicero is startled.

"Feeling better?" Cicero asks, his eyebrows raised in a worried kind of amusement.

Lumen nods stiffly. "Yes- and no."

"That is not much of an answer at all."

"I- need to go- clear my head," she says, more to herself than Cicero, and she strides out of the chapel.

* * *

Cicero watches Lumen dart through the chapel doors and _run away_ once again. He stares at the now empty doorway. He is bewildered. Frustrated. Hoping against hope that Lumen has more sense than to wander the forest in the middle of the night, half-drunk, and alone. But the distant scrape of the Black Door closing dashes those hopes away.

"Cicero has his work cut out for him with this one," he mutters, and stands to follow her. But from a distance this time. Lumen didn't seem to be in the mood for company and would likely argue with him if she knew he was coming along, and poor, annoyed Cicero is in no mood to deal with yet another argument. His only wish is to keep the Listener safe and alive, and able _to Listen_.

He can see that she's a capable killer, everyone in the Brotherhood is, but she has a long way to go before he'd ever consider her a capable assassin. She's reckless, letting the thrill get in the way of caution. But Cicero will help her. Cicero will show her. He will make her understand that a _distracted_ assassin is a _dead_ assassin. He giggles, thinking of how much fun it will be to sneak up on Lumen and frighten her. She'll be angry, of course. Anger seems to be her default emotion. Cicero wonders if she might scream. Or even cry. He doesn't know, but he's itching to find out.

The pine forest is dark. The deep shadows cast by the trees made darker in contrast to the light of the twin moons streaming through the canopy, dappling the forest floor in pools of silver. Lumen is quick and quiet. Anyone else would've missed her in her silent, shrouded armor, flitting from shadow to shadow. Fortunately, Cicero spent most of his life perfecting the art of pursuit, and it doesn't take him long to find her shape within the shadows.

Lumen slows to a stop when she reaches the edge of the forest, where the trees give way to the gravestones of Falkreath's cemetery. Torch bugs flicker amidst the plentiful Nightshades which sweeten the damp, unusually warm air. It's peaceful and quiet, and Cicero has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing with excitement and giving himself away. He edges closer to where Lumen is, but he stops when he hears the door to the Hall of the Dead creaking open.

An elderly Altmer steps out onto the porch. The priest of Arkay sighs and rubs his back, the golden pulse of a healing spell flickering across his robes as he tries to ease the pains of old age. Cicero notices that Lumen is watching the priest, her eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He's seen her like this before. A few months ago when they first met on the road. When sweet Lumen convinced the farmer to help poor Cicero. He hadn't known what to make of it then. But now he recognizes that look for what it really is; hunger in its purest form.

With his hand resting on his back, the priest steps away from the Hall of the Dead and turns to look up at the clear, night sky. Admiring the aurora and turning his back on Lumen. _"Foolish, very foolish indeed,"_ Cicero thinks, and his grin widens when he sees Lumen advancing on the priest. In two swift, silent steps, she's behind him, looping her belt around his neck like a noose. The Altmer makes a choking sound when Lumen tugs the noose, and yanks him back with surprising strength, dragging him into the forest so she can finish her work under the cover of trees.

"I _am_ sorry, old man," she says, without an ounce of regret. It's difficult for Cicero to make out her words over the crunching of twigs and the rustle of leaves as she drags the priest deeper into the trees, finally stopping in a patch of moonlight. "You're not really my first choice. It's just that _she_ is too far away and I can't- I can't wait any longer."

Lumen drops the priest to the ground, throwing the belt aside as she sits on his chest. He grabs at his throat in a vain attempt to ease the discomfort of being choked as his ragged, wet coughs fill the air. The priest cries out when Lumen draws her daedric dagger, the inky, black blade gleaming like oil in the moonlight.

"W-wait! Please don't-" the priest's voice dissolves into a wet, bubbling, gasp as Lumen drags the serrated edge of the blade across his throat. Bright red arterial blood spurts from the wound with every fading heartbeat. But that is not enough to satisfy Lumen. She pulls the blade across his skin again, snaring flesh and sinew alike, and splattering red across the trunks of nearby trees and filling the air with the scent of blood.

It's like watching an artist create a masterpiece, and Cicero is utterly fixated, too terrified to blink lest he miss some important detail. As the Altmer's blood drains, so too does the tension bleed from Lumen's shoulders. She stops stabbing him when her knife becomes too bloody to hold, and then- _she smiles_. It's always been easy for Cicero to see through her smiles, to discern the transparent from the genuine. Most were of the transparent sort, but then, so were most of his. But here in the wake of the Altmer's death does a genuine smile grace her lips, and it is intoxicating.

"Now this is interesting," he says, stepping out of the shadows. "Sweet Lumen could have simply told Cicero that she wanted to go kill a priest. Cicero is always up for that."

Lumen flinches at the sound of his voice, which pleases Cicero. He'd wanted to frighten her, and while he didn't get to leap out of the shadows at her, a little reaction is good enough for him. "I hadn't planned on killing the priest," she admits without looking up at him. Her eyes are focused on the blood seeping from the Altmer's throat.

"Not regretting it, I hope?" Cicero asks.

"Of course not," she snaps, finally looking up at him. "I only regret not having a plan. I can't leave the body here."

"Ah, yes. Cicero suspects the people of Falkreath will miss their Priest of Arkay, and it's never wise to leave evidence so close to home." He taps his finger against his chin as he thinks of how to dispose of priest. "Well, it's a good thing Cicero is here to help you, yes?"

"It's only a good thing if you actually have a plan."

"Oh, ye of little faith. Of course Cicero has a plan!"

* * *

Together, Cicero and Lumen move the priest's body deeper into the forest. Deep enough that if and when it's discovered, the scavengers of the forest will have dismantled the carcass beyond recognition. With Lumen's fears of discovery assuaged, the two assassins walk back to the sanctuary in silence. Lumen falls behind, and Cicero is happy to lead, but he's stopped by a tug at the back of his motley jacket.

"What is it? We are nearly home now-" He turns and is greeted by Lumen's blood-slicked hands cupping his jaw and pulling him closer. The Altmer's blood feels cold and sticky against his skin, but the iron-rich scent and the feel of Lumen's warm lips pressing against his quickly dispels any discomfort. The scent brings back the memory of watching his Listener kill, and reminds him of his many kills in the past. That, combined with Lumen's firm, demanding kisses, has his cock hardening almost instantly.

"I don't want to go home yet," she murmurs against his lips, pushing him against a large, moss-covered rock and shoving her thigh between his legs.

"This seems familiar," Cicero says. Recalling the last time they killed together and kissed beneath the trees. Only it had been interrupted, much to Cicero's immense frustration.

"Clear skies tonight," she tells him, as if she could read his thoughts somehow. Lumen's gloves drop to the ground. With one hand she begins to unlace his trousers, the other pressing against his chest and holding him in place. Her fingers slip beneath the hem and close around him, and Lumen captures his mouth with hers again.

Well, if she isn't going to waste time with the niceties of seduction, then he won't either. In a way, he is grateful for her urgency. It's been so long since Cicero has been with someone, and he's not certain he could endure a lengthy foreplay session. Maybe next time - assuming there is a next time - they'll do this dance properly; with soft furs beneath their bodies and a roof over their heads.

He grabs her wrist, stilling her busy hand in his trousers. "Help Cicero with this damnable armor of yours," he says, his voice rough and thick with desire.

Lumen kicks a boot off as Cicero frees her belt and tosses it next to her gloves. His gloves follow shortly after. Then, he grabs her by the waist and spins her around, pressing her body against the rock as she manages to free one leg from her leather trousers. Impatient and desperate, Cicero cuts her smalls away with his dagger.

"Hey!" Lumen protests, grabbing his hat and flinging it towards the pile of discarded clothes. "I don't have so many smalls that you can just-" she gasps, unable to finish her sentence as Cicero's fingers slide between her damp folds.

Cicero chuckles. His fingers pressing inside of her and his thumb circling around her clit. "If Cicero knew this was all he had to do to silence that venomous mouth of yours, he would have tried it sooner."

"Oh, _shut up_ ," she says breathlessly, the smallest of smiles playing on her lips as she hooks her naked leg around his waist. Cicero doesn't say another word when he grips her hips and drives himself into her. He squeezes his eyes shut. A shiver of pleasure running through his body at the sensation of being enveloped by her tight, wet heat. He takes a deep breath, wrapping an arm around her waist and bracing himself against the rock with the other.

Lumen's mouth is against his neck, biting and sucking as her fingers twine in his hair, gripping hard for leverage. Her leg curls tightly against him and he moves his hips against hers. Slowly at first, until instinct takes over, and he thrusts harder and deeper until she's moaning softly. Lumen hooks her ankles together, the heel of her soft, leather boot digs into his back, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything except that Lumen has her legs wrapped around him and she's coming undone because of _him_.

Cicero runs a hand over the swell of her breasts, which are unfortunately still hidden beneath her leather armor. But Lumen hums appreciatively at his attentions, her breath hitching in anticipation when his hand travels further down her torso and stops between her legs. He presses his thumb against her clit, and he's inordinately pleased with himself when her soft moans become louder and rougher.

Normally, assassins loathe nights where the moons are full and bright, but not Cicero. Not tonight. Otherwise he'd never be able to see Lumen looking so utterly _ruined_. Her skin glossy with sweat; her tousled hair clinging to her cheeks and neck. Cicero knows his would be too if it weren't for Lumen's fingers carding through his hair.

A well-placed whirl of his thumb has Lumen arching her back and crying out. Her legs flexing around his hips and her body clenching tight around him as she comes. Cicero is not far behind her. After a few quick thrusts his release hits him hard, and he buries his face in the crook of her neck, spilling into her with a muffled groan. He slowly withdraws with a shiver, but he doesn't move away from her. Preferring to rest against her until he catches his breath and the fuzziness in his head clears.

"Cicero?" Lumen's voice is barely above a whisper, and she touches his face with a gentleness he didn't think she possessed. He lifts his head to find her watching him with a self-satisfied smile on her lips. Looking very much like the cat who got the cream. "Oh, good. You're awake."

"Barely," Cicero admits, grinning as he pushes away from Lumen. They clean up and dress in near silence, the only words exchanged are soft murmurs of thanks when Lumen hands Cicero his hat, and when he recovers her boot from a nearby bush.

"Well," Lumen says, smoothing down her tousled hair. "Shall we go home?"

"Lead the way, Listener."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's about time they did something about all that sexual tension... Heh. I hope the POV change from Lumen to Cicero wasn't too confusing. Please feel free to let me know what you think!


	8. Diplomatic Immunity

Lumen wakes to the sound of Festus snoring loud enough to wake the dead. A quick glance around the sleeping area tells her that her brothers and sisters don't seem to mind, or they drank enough the night before to sleep through the racket. She did not, and she grumbles as she folds her pillow over her head, but it does little to block out the noise.

" _That old man is going to cause a cave in,"_ she thinks as she stretches. The slight twinge in her muscles reminds her of her activities the night before. Her arms are sore from dragging the old Altmer around, and the pain in her back from what happened after. A pleasant bonus, to be sure. Even better is actually having a friend who likes to watch blood flow just as much as she does. While Lumen's had some fairly bloodthirsty companions in the past, none of them were quite like Cicero.

Then again, _no one_ is quite like Cicero.

When it becomes clear that she's not going to get anymore sleep, she kicks the furs from her body and goes about her morning routine. After washing, she dresses in a white tunic and a pair of doe-skin breeches, she slips a leather belt around her waist and finally steps into a pair of soft, leather boots. It feels nice to wear loose-fitting clothing after spending days in her form-fitting, shrouded armor.

Once dressed, she chews a mint leaf - a habit she picked up from living among Altmer and Imperials for so long - and heads to the sanctuary foyer, where she finds Astrid working at her desk.

"Good morning," Lumen says.

"Good _afternoon_ ," Astrid corrects her, but she looks up at the Bosmer with a polite smile. "What do you need, sister?"

"Well- I remember Motierre telling us that we'd be killing several people," Lumen says, stepping closer to Astrid's desk. "I'm curious as to whom."

Astrid bites the inside of her cheek and watches Lumen carefully. It's almost as if she doesn't want to tell her, which is ridiculous considering they met Motierre together. Eventually Astrid relents and says, "the first contract is for the emperor's cousin, Vittoria Vici. We're to kill her at her wedding."

" _Nice_. But what's the point in killing his cousin?" Lumen asks.

"The _point_ is to get the emperor's attention," Astrid says, folding her hands upon her desk as she continues, "I'm assigning this contract to Veezara and Gabriella. They are intimately familiar with Solitude and since this is a public kill, I want two of my more seasoned assassins on this one."

"That makes sense," Lumen says, a little disappointed, but not terribly. Killing someone as high-profile as the emperor's cousin right out in the open, and in front of countless witnesses who will no doubt be out for blood once the deed is done, is too risky for her liking.

"So who gets to kill the emperor?"

Astrid hesitates, tapping her fingers on her desk. "I don't know. There's so much work to be done before we even get to that point. I'm just trying to take this one step at a time. I'm sure you understand."

Lumen nods. "Of course," she says, but she can't shake the feeling that Astrid is planning on saving the emperor for herself, which annoys her. She's the Listener, and by rights, shouldn't that kill be hers? "Um, so-" she stammers, trying to think of something to say so it doesn't seem like she's sulking, "do you have any work for me?"

"Getting antsy, already?" Astrid asks, a vague annoyance creeping into her voice. "I don't have anything, I've been too busy working on the emperor contract. Nazir might have something, though."

"Thanks, Astrid." Lumen says, and goes off in search for Nazir, hoping he will actually have something for her to do. She finds him in the chapel, much to her surprise, and he's staring at the Night Mother with a curious expression on his face. Lumen stands just outside the doors, debating on whether or not she should disturb him. Is he praying, perhaps? He'd never made mention of following the Old Ways, but maybe having the Night Mother around is changing that.

It doesn't take long for Lumen's impatience to get the best of her and she steps into the chapel. "Um, Nazir? Am I interrupting anything?"

Nazir starts, and turns to look at her. "Oh, no. Not at all. I'm just thinking," and after regaining his composure he says, "I'm surprised you're awake. That Stros M'Kai rum usually hits the uninitiated pretty hard."

"I'm full of surprises," she grins, "and I am hardly 'uninitiated', Nazir. Give me a little credit."

He laughs at that. "So what led you to seek me out, sister? Or did you just come to stare at the most handsome Redguard in Tamriel? I don't mind, but I admit it's starting to get creepy."

"I'm looking for work," she tells him. "I've been running a bit low on funds ever since I purchased my horse."

"I'm afraid I don't have anything for you," he says, folding his arms across his chest. "I just gave my last available contract to Babette."

"Oh, well... That's all right," Lumen says, though she's terribly disappointed. Killing the Priest of Arkay certainly sated her bloodlust, but the man hadn't had any gold on him, and gold is exactly what Lumen needs right now. She hates being short on money.

Nazir seems to pick up on her disappointment and says, "Come back and see me in a few days. I should have something then."

Lumen nods and leaves the chapel, wondering what to do with herself. Her brows knit together in a frown, and she glares at a crack branching across the granite floor. As of this moment she's officially broke and very, very bored. It's rather annoying.

"If looks could kill, Cicero would surely be a dead man by now."

She looks up, the frown easing from her face when she sees Cicero standing at the end of the hallway. He grins as he walks toward her. "Cicero thought you would be in a much better mood today, considering..."

"My mood is fine," she says defensively. "I'm just going a little stir-crazy."

"Hmm," Cicero eyes her curiously. "If you are bored, you are welcome to accompany Cicero to Falkreath."

Lumen smiles, grateful for the invitation. "Why are you going to Falkreath?"

He motions for Lumen to walk with him. "Cicero needs more alchemy supplies and dear Babette does not always have all the necessary components to make the Night Mother's preserving oils with. Cicero had to place a special order with Zaria at Grave Concoctions just to get what he needs."

"What exactly do you need?" Lumen asks, intrigued.

"Cicero needs arsenicum. It is very expensive and hard to find, but essential for preserving the Night Mother."

"It's also highly toxic," Lumen says. "Oh gods, I touched her and she had arsenicum on her?"

"Oh, Lumen will be fine!" Cicero chirps and he offers her a comforting pat on the back. "Cicero has been exposed to it for years and he is quite all right."

Lumen gapes at him, before she finally finds her voice again. "Cicero- you- you've never had any alchemy training, have you?"

"No! None at all! Cicero had to teach himself once he was chosen as Keeper," he tells her, looking imminently proud of himself. Which is why Lumen doesn't want to tell him that he was going about it all wrong- well, she knows nothing about the Keeping Rituals, but she knows a lot about mixing potions and how to handle toxic ingredients.

"You at least wear gloves and a mask when mixing and applying the preserving oils to Mother, right?" Lumen asks him. _"Oh, please say that you do, you ridiculous man."_

"Oh, Sithis no! These are the only gloves Cicero has," he holds his hands up, wiggling his fingers. "And Cicero does not like to wear masks at all. They are entirely too confining for poor Cicero's liking."

Lumen could scream. She doesn't know where this odd protective streak suddenly came from. But here she is, worrying about Cicero's health and feeling an intense need to protect the foolish man from _himself_. Though her senseless concern for him ebbs when he collapses into a fit of laughter.

"What's so damn funny?" she snaps, placing her hands on her hips and leveling a glare at him.

Cicero takes a few breaths before he can speak again. "You should have seen the look on your face," he chuckles. "Cicero was just pulling your leg! I know to take proper precautions with arsenicum. Really, poor Cicero should be insulted that you would think otherwise."

"You- you-" Lumen stammers, then sighs when she gives up on responding to him altogether. She's annoyed that she even thought to worry about the infuriating, little jester.

Cicero awards Lumen with a wide, toothy grin, and he links his arm with hers. "Oh, do not take it so hard. You are not the first person Cicero has fooled!" He gives her arm a little tug, "We should be going unless sweet Lumen is planning to stay home and sulk."

"I'm not sulking," she says. "I _never_ sulk."

Cicero's grin doesn't waver. If anything, it grows even wider. "Of course, Lumen. Whatever you say."

* * *

"Are you still pouting?" Cicero asks as Falkreath comes into view.

Lumen snorts. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

Cicero glances at her with a sly grin on his lips. "Cicero must admit, he is quite flattered that sweet Lumen would worry about him so." Lumen grumbles something unintelligible in response, and so he presses on. "I had no idea you were so _taken_ with me."

Lumen almost trips over her feet at that. "Don't be ridiculous. I have never been 'taken' with anyone in my entire life," she snaps, though it's not entirely true. But right now, her pride is infinitely more important than the truth. "I was concerned because- uh-"

"Yes? Cicero is waiting."

"Oh, to the Void with it. I don't have an answer," she mutters, folding her arms across her chest and scowling. "But I would hate to see you do something idiotic like poisoning yourself, and that's where my concern begins and ends. So don't read too far into it and use it to fluff your damn ego with."

Cicero laughs, and throws an arm around her shoulders. "That," he gives her a squeeze, "is a good enough answer for Cicero." He pulls away and he skips ahead of her, humming cheerfully and stunning the two guards standing at the entrance to Falkreath.

Lumen shakes her head and quietly trails behind Cicero, wishing she hadn't let her guard down and made her concern so obvious. That weak moment has vanished, however, and in its place is a desire to throttle the man. Unfortunately, Cicero would probably enjoy being roughed up, and that line of thought fills Lumen's head with a multitude of pleasantly distracting ideas. Which is why she doesn't notice the very familiar blonde Breton exiting Grave Concoctions until she's grabbing Lumen by the collar and yanking her round the side of the small building.

"What- Delphine!" Lumen exclaims, feeling her heart sink into her stomach. "What are you doing in Falkreath?"

"I should be asking you the same thing!" Delphine snaps, giving Lumen a little shake. "You were supposed to meet me in Riverwood _months_ ago- ah!" she gasps when the ebony blade of Cicero's dagger presses against her neck, and she goes very, very still.

"Sweet Lumen," Cicero purrs. "Is this brutish woman mistreating you? Cicero will gladly show her the same kindness if you wish." He smiles at Delphine, his gloved fingers clenching tight around the hilt of his dagger, ready to end her life if Lumen only gives the word.

"No! Cicero don't hurt her," Lumen says, and Delphine wisely releases her grip on Lumen's shirt collar. "Put your blade away!"

Cicero does as he's told, and Delphine takes a step away from the pair. "Ah, so that's what you've been up to. You ran off and got yourself a-" she falls silent when she finally lays eyes on Cicero, and Lumen has to resist the urge to laugh. Delphine quickly recovers and says, "- a jester?"

"Yes. I ran off and joined a troupe of traveling performers," Lumen says sweetly. "It seemed preferable to fighting dragons and dealing with the Thalmor."

"That isn't funny," Delphine hisses, her voice stiff with disapproval. "There's still the matter of getting into the Embassy. Damn it, Lumen, we need to know what the Thalmor know!"

"You really don't give up, do you? I figured I would've missed the party by now," Lumen says, completely unrepentant. "Really, you should just send someone else. I don't know why it has to be me."

"You did, but lucky for us, Elenwen throws parties almost every month," Delphine tells her, all while keeping a wary eye on an unusually quiet Cicero. "It has to be you. No one else knows what to look for."

Lumen sneers at her. "You're not getting me near the Thalmor Embassy without a damn good reason, and I need a better reason than 'oh, I think they may know why the dragons are returning'. Which sounds like the most ridiculous conspiracy theory ever, by the way. The Altmer are powerful mages, but even they couldn't resurrect hoards of centuries-dead dragons."

"I don't care if it sounds ridiculous. It's all I have to go on," Delphine says, her voice rising in pitch. "Lumen, please. _Please._ I need your help."

"Do it yourself!"

"I can't, damn it! And you know exactly _why_ I can't!"

"Well, I can't either!"

"Then at least tell me why. You owe me that much, _Dragonborn_."

Lumen flinches at that, and she glances at Cicero who merely raises an eyebrow at her, but says nothing. His silence really cannot be a good thing. But Lumen is grateful that he's standing protectively by her side. Otherwise she's fairly certain that Delphine would've bashed her over the head and whisked her away to Riverwood by now.

"I-" Lumen struggles with the words, but maybe Delphine will understand. Maybe she'll even sympathize with her. "I was raised by a Thalmor Justiciar."

There is an tense silence between them, and a bitter rage lights in Delphine's eyes. It's enough to inspire both Lumen and Cicero to take a step backwards. "You're not involved with the Thalmor, are you?" Delphine asks, her voice shaking.

"Fuck no!" Lumen shouts, then lowers her voice when a passerby on the road glares at her. "Why would you think that? Look, the reason I don't want to go to the Embassy is because I spent the better part of my life trying to get away from those bastards, and I have absolutely no desire to go waltzing into a Thalmor soirée." She closes her eyes, hating every moment of this. Hating that she can't seem to outrun her past and now she's forced to air her dirty laundry in front of Delphine and Cicero.

"Is there a chance you would be recognized?"

"Maybe," Lumen says quietly. “Elenwen-- I’ve met her once.” A shiver runs through her. She never thought she’d see Malrian’s older sister ever again.

“Oh, gods damnit,” Delphine growls, as if the events of Lumen’s life are an inconvenience to her.

“But she might not recognize me,” she says forcefully, preventing Delphine from complaining further. “It was a long time ago and she hardly paid any attention to me when we met. But the other Justiciars and agents at the party… They could be the real problem.”

"My man on the inside has given me the names of the high-ranking Thalmor that will be there," Delphine says slowly, as a plan starts to form. "If I tell you the names, will you go?"

Lumen purses her lips in thought. "Maybe," she says, uncertain if she will or won't. The only benefit to going to the Embassy is to get Delphine off her back so the wretched woman doesn't dog her steps all over Skyrim. But Lumen would sooner kill her than put herself in danger, so if she recognizes any names, anyone else who might be a danger to her, she'll kill Delphine and dump her corpse next to the priest's.

"All right," Delphine's shoulders slump in resignation. "Obviously there's First Emissary Elenwen, Ondolemar, Lorcalin, Third Emissary Rulindil-"

"Wait," Lumen puts a hand up to stop her. "I recognize that name."

"You know him?"

"I am familiar with his _work_ ," Lumen says stiffly, as she recalls eyes darker than the Void and a smile so sadistic, even Mehrunes Dagon would soil himself and run away screaming in terror if he ever saw it. Oh, she knows Rulindil, better than she ever wanted to, and she's always wanted to split the bastard from stem to stern. "Okay."

"Okay? Okay what?" Delphine asks.

"I'll do it,” Lumen says, willing to risk being near Malrian’s older sister if it means she can have her revenge on Rulindil. “Just for the chance to kill that bastard, I'll do it."

A grim smile spreads across Delphine's lips. "Lumen, you can kill every Thalmor you see in that place. I don't care. I just want whatever information they have, and once you have that I don't care if you burn the gods forsaken place to the ground and piss on the ashes."

"Cicero would like to see that," he says, finally breaking his silence.

Lumen nudges him with her elbow. "All right, so when's the next party?"

"It's in a week," Delphine tells her, sounding relieved. "I'll need to check with my contact, but I believe I can get you in. Not as a guest this time, that opportunity is long gone. However, I might be able to work something else out. But, Lumen, if this is going to happen then we need to leave tonight."

Lumen bites her lip, reluctant to leave the sanctuary, and Cicero, behind. But it's only for a week or so, and the chance to get revenge on Rulindil is too tempting to ignore. It's not as if Astrid or Nazir have any contracts for her, and she doubts she'll be missed in such a short span of time. Well- not by them anyway. But the passive, blank look on Cicero's face tells her that at least _someone_ will miss her while she's away.

"I need to get my things," Lumen glances up at the position of the sun in the sky, then back to Delphine. "Give me an hour, and I'll meet you at the Dead Man's Drink."

"Oh no. I'm coming with you. You stood me up the last time," Delphine says, glowering at Lumen.

"No," she says firmly. "Trust me, Delphine. I'll not pass up the opportunity to kill Rulindil."

Delphine sighs, obviously not in the mood to argue with Lumen. "Fine. One hour," and with that, she spins on her heel and marches to the Inn.

"Can Cicero do his shopping now? Or are more of Lumen's angry friends going to pop out of the woodwork?"

"Sithis, I hope not," Lumen says, then tugs at Cicero's sleeve. "Come on. Let's go get your supplies."

They enter the alchemy shop, and Lumen spends the time looking at the alchemist's impressive stock of potions and poisons while Cicero haggles with Zaria over the price of the arsenicum. After a few minutes of this, Zaria caves and drops the price by a few septims, apparently the threat of Cicero taking his business elsewhere is enough to convince her to let the arsenicum go for a little less than she'd hoped for.

The walk back to the sanctuary is a rather quiet one, all things considered. Lumen is too busy thinking about all the different ways she can eviscerate Rulindil, and she is so lost in her thoughts that she bumps into Cicero no less than three times. Though he seems to think it's all rather funny, and when it becomes clear that he will not be able to engage her in conversation, he spends the rest of the walk singing a morbid tune.

When they make it back home, the rest of the family is awake, save for Babette. Lumen passes through the sanctuary and is ignored by both Astrid and Arnbjorn, but she does nod to Veezara when he greets her, then she breezes past him and into the shared bedroom to pack her things. She stuffs her shrouded armor into her knapsack, it wouldn't do to let Delphine see her in that, and she packs her favorite blades along with a few health potions.

After a quick look around, Lumen is fairly certain she's not forgetting anything important, and she slings her pack over her shoulder. She crosses the hallway and into Cicero's room, where she finds him bent over the table, making notes in a small, black book. A book he quickly snaps shut when he sees her enter.

"Lumen," he says, standing up straight. "I see you are all packed for this- well whatever you are doing for that Delphine woman."

"A doomed mission most likely, but don't worry. I'll be home in a week or so assuming I don't die horribly," she smiles, trying to ease her own nerves with humor.

"You will not die," Cicero says, and she isn't sure if he's reassuring himself or her. "Lumen, what did Delphine mean when she called you 'Dragonborn'?"

"Ah, _that_ \- well, it's a long and complicated story. But I promise I'll tell you all about it when I come home," she offers, and to her relief Cicero nods in agreement.

Cicero's smile fades as his eyes meet hers. "All right, Listener. Just be sure to come home soon. Mother will be waiting for you," his voice is calm and serious, and almost unrecognizable without the manic wavering behind his words. "Cicero will be waiting for you, too."

A pregnant silence hangs between them for a few seconds as Lumen's distracted mind tries to process just what he means, and her stomach flutters nervously when she recognizes his words as a threat- or rather, a very dangerous promise. And what he's promising becomes a little more clear when he steps closer and caresses her jawline. It's just the barest of touches, really, but combined with the heat in his gaze, it has her heart racing.

Lumen nods, finding it suddenly very hard to breathe. "I'll see you soon, Cicero."

* * *

The journey to Solitude had been tense. Delphine spent the better half of the trip grilling Lumen about her past with the Thalmor, and Lumen's reluctance to speak about it only amplified the Breton's paranoia. So they spent the rest of the trip ignoring each other in order to avoid another shouting match, of which, there had been many.

After stabling their horses at Katla's Farm, Delphine walks with Lumen to the city gates. "This is as far as I am willing to go," she says, glancing around nervously. "I trust you can find Malborn on your own?"

"I'll manage," Lumen says, grateful for the chance to finally be away from Delphine.

"Come find me in Riverwood when you've got the files," and with that, Delphine turns and walks away from Lumen. Then, she stops, and glances over her shoulder. "Good luck."

"Yeah, thanks," Lumen mutters as she passes through the city gates. Solitude reminds her of Skingrad, a city in Cyrodiil, with the high points on the buildings and the banners strung across the walkways. Also because it is densely crowded, as Skingrad always was. But this is hardly surprising. Despite the war, nobles have traveled from all over to attend Vittoria Vici's wedding. Lumen wishes she could stay in Solitude long enough to witness all the pandemonium Veezara and Gabriella will cause when they murder the bride the next evening, but she has her own chaos to orchestrate.

Lumen pushes her way through the throng of revelers in the Winking Skeever, wondering how she's supposed to find Malborn in the crowd. But eventually she spots a very nervous Bosmer sitting at a table in a darkened corner of the inn. Hoping that he's the right one, Lumen approaches the table and slides into the chair across from him.

"Can I help you, friend?" he asks tersely.

"We have a mutual acquaintance, Malborn."

"Really?" He looks her over. "You're who she's gone through so much trouble for?" He shakes his head and takes a long draught of his mead.

"Look, I've had a long journey and I've been subjected to very poor company the entire way. So can we please just get on with it?" Lumen asks, trying to keep her voice level.

Malborn heaves a longsuffering sigh. "Follow me," he says, and Lumen merely nods in response. They exit the Winking Skeever together and ultimately, the city of Solitude.

Once they start up a heavily traveled mountain path, Lumen says, "Delphine told me I wouldn't be able to attend the party as a guest this time around."

"That's right. You'll be posing as kitchen help, instead. Which is a better plan, in my opinion. It'll be much easier for you to slip away." Malborn holds his hand out to Lumen and says, "We're nearly there, so give me your pack."

"Why?"

"Because you're new and the Thalmor take security very seriously," Malborn says slowly, as if he's speaking to a small child. "They know me so they won't search the pack if I have it, but you can expect to be searched at the very least."

"You have got to be kidding me," Lumen grumbles, but she hands her traveling pack to Malborn.

He shoulders it, and says, "I'll hide it in the pantry so you can grab your things when you're ready."

Lumen doesn't respond. She's silenced by the sight of the Thalmor Embassy and the two golden armored guards standing out front . _"Don't gape,"_ she reminds herself, _"and don't panic."_

The two Altmer guarding the front door don't bother to greet them, they just hold the heavy iron doors open for them. They enter the building and are greeted by two more guards, who allow Malborn to slip by without so much as a glance his way.

One of the guards motions for Lumen to step closer to him. "All right, girl. I need to search you," he sounds bored, as if he's had to do this a million times before. "Hold your arms out at your sides and spread your legs."

Lumen takes a deep breath to quell the nausea welling up inside her and does as he bids, reminding herself that this isn't the first time she's been searched, and it won't be the last. It's hardly a comforting thought, as the guard places his large hands upon her thigh, and slides them down her leg to her ankle. He does the same to her other leg before moving behind her and smoothing a hand across her lower back. The guard seems to have no interest in molesting her, but that thought does little to calm her. She shuts her eyes tight as bile begins to rise in her throat when his hands go to her sides, and travel up her torso, coming to a stop just beneath her breasts.

"Oh, for Mara's sake. Stop pawing at the poor girl, Avaeril. She looks like she's going to be sick and I _just_ had these floors cleaned," snaps an imperious, female voice. The guard mumbles an apology and steps away, and Lumen opens her eyes to find herself face-to-face with none other than the First Emissary herself. "So you must be the new help. Have you had much experience working in kitchens?"

"I have, Madame Ambassador," Lumen says, trying like the Void to keep her voice steady. If Elenwen recognizes her, it’s all over.

"Well thank the Eight for that. Good help is so hard to find in this backwater country," Elenwen says, then she reaches out and grabs Lumen by the chin, gently tilting her face up to get a better look at her. "You're pretty for a Bosmer."

Lumen has no idea what to say to _that_. So she comforts herself by imagining what Elenwen's head would look like on a pike.

"There's likely a little Altmer in your bloodline to curb some of your kinds more unattractive traits."

Oh, yes. Elenwen's head on a pike. Her eyes being pecked out by a pair of ravens. Lovely.

Elenwen lets her chin go. "Well, I'll not keep you any longer. My guests will be arriving in a few hours, and you have a lot of work to do." With that, Elenwen turns on her heel and strides away, her black robes billowing behind her.

Malborn drags Lumen into the kitchen. "Shit," he hisses. "That was _not_ supposed to happen."

"I don’t think she recognized me," Lumen says.

"Delphine didn’t give me a very detailed report of your history, just that you’ve met the First Emissary before. It was too risky bringing you here..." his voice trails off, then he shakes his head. "Never mind. No sense in worrying about it now. Just make yourself useful until the party starts."

* * *

It's late evening by the time the Embassy's grand ballroom is full. Elenwen has graciously offered to host a reception for the bride-to-be, and rather than hover over her kitchen staff, she is busy consuming expensive _apéritifs_ , and frilly _hors d'oevres_ with her guests. The kitchen is quiet save for the hum of a dozen conversations that float in from the ballroom. The Khajiit cook vanished hours ago with a satchel of moon sugar when she noticed Lumen knew her way around a kitchen and needed little coaching. Restless, Lumen paces the empty kitchen as she waits for Malborn's signal.

Malborn enters the kitchen with an empty tray, he nods at Lumen when he picks up a fresh tray loaded with breads and cheeses, and he leaves as quickly as he came. That's her signal, thank the Night Mother, and Lumen moves quickly. She slips into the pantry and pulls her shrouded armor on, and once she slides her blades into place at her hips, she leaves the kitchen through the back door.

The rest of the embassy is cold and quiet in comparison to the kitchen. Lumen silently creeps through the hallway, her sharp ears twitching when she hears the tell-tale rattle of armor. She grips her daggers with shaky hands, adrenaline pumping through her as she approaches an open door.

This is it. This is revenge and _more,_ and her nerves are humming with anticipation; her muscles flexing as she prepares to strike. The two guards inside the room are talking, but their conversation is drowned out by her pulse thumping in her ears. Lumen's heart beats like a war drum as she rushes through the doorway, and the guards turn to face her upon hearing her footsteps. The taller of the two takes a step away, while the other is too surprised to move, and he dies with Lumen's dagger slipping through a weak point in his armor and into his heart.

The tall guard draws his sword and advances on her, but Lumen is faster and more agile than he will ever be, and he falls in a spray of blood. A rustle of movement in the adjacent room draws her attention, and she narrowly dodges a stream of electricity when she steps through the doorway. The next bolt hits her, however, and while she has been hit with worse, it still catches her off guard. Lumen crashes into a nearby table, sending cups and plates clattering to the floor, but she recovers quickly. Vines of lightning curl around the Thalmor mage's fingers as he readies another spell, and Lumen throws herself to the side as another electric bolt screams by, the air rippling with heat in its wake.

The mage breaks out into a sweat, his magicka stores running low, and Lumen takes the opportunity to advance on him. Before he can recast or fight back, her blade slices through the air like a silver flame, splitting his belly and spilling his bowels at his feet.

Satisfied, Lumen begins a search of the building, but she finds nothing in the way of information. She does find a disguise, however; a hooded Thalmor robe, and she pulls it on over her shrouded armor before stepping out into the snowy courtyard. The hem of the robe drags against the ground, and she walks on the tips of her toes to appear a little taller. None of the guards seem to pay her any mind, as they are too caught up in their own conversations, which makes it easy for Lumen to slip into Elenwen's Solar.

The Solar is empty and quiet save for the sounds of the occasional, muffled scream coming from below. Lumen is a little disgusted, but not at all surprised that Elenwen would prefer to keep her prisoners close. Ignoring the sounds for now, she makes her way through a dimly lit corridor and enters a large office. After a quick search of the desk, Lumen procures three dossiers and tucks them in her pack. She has to resist the urge to kick something, though. The Thalmor know nothing about the dragons. It's as she expected, really, and she plans to rub that in Delphine's face.

Lumen finds a key in the desk drawer, and with it in hand, she approaches the dungeon door. If Rulindil is anywhere, he's in there, and all that stands between Lumen and a little taste of sweet revenge is a rusty lock on a wooden door. She swallows hard, her hand shaking as she slips the key into the lock. The door opens quietly, much to her surprise. She'd thought the hinges might groan ominously - it would be fitting considering the setting, but trust someone like Elenwen not to suffer a squeaky door hinge. It would be funny if Lumen had it in her to laugh. As it is, there's no laughter left in her. Not now. Not here. Not in a place so familiar, and not with Rulindil only a few feet away, quietly watching a guard torture a prisoner.

Lumen draws her dagger and quietly descends the wooden staircase, the lone prisoner's screaming and sobbing drowns out the soft groan of the wood beneath her feet. The pommel of her dagger smacks into the side of Rulindil's head, knocking him unconscious, and he slides out of his chair and onto the floor.

The guard notices and he steps out of the prisoner's cell. He's yelling something, but Lumen isn't listening. His words are drowned out by the storm of her single-minded purpose, the _real_ reason why she's here. She dispatches the guard quickly; two quick slices along the side of the guard's throat opens both carotid arteries, his blood spurting out in time with his faltering heartbeats as he falls to the floor. After releasing the prisoner, Lumen stands over the prone form of Rulindil, her lips curling in a savage grin.

"Alone at last."

* * *

Rulindil wakes.

Lumen always did like this part. When an unconscious victim finally wakes, their eyes focusing on her face, and the myriad of emotions that pass through them when they realize they are completely at her mercy. In Rulindil's case, he's laid across his desk, his arms and legs bound uncomfortably to the legs of the desk with a length of rope. His palms sliced open, with a generous amount of glow dust stuffed inside the wound to prevent him from casting.

"Hello there," she says sweetly, while fingering the tip of a hawkbill blade - Rulindil's blade, actually. "I'm sure you don't remember me, we only ever saw each other in passing. But you got to know my mother very, very well."

Rulindil's lip curls. "I've gotten to know a lot of people very well," he pauses, looking her up and down with his dark eyes. "But you're right. I don't remember you, and I doubt I would remember your mother. All you Bosmeri whores start to look alike after a while."

"Aw, now that was just uncalled for," Lumen sticks her lip out in a mock pout, and she sets the curved blade down. Picking up a pair of sharp-edged shears, she snips Rulindil's pinky finger off without so much as a warning. He thrashes against his binds, bearing his teeth as he growls in pain. Lumen narrows her eyes at him and says, "I admit, I'm a little disappointed with your reaction. So let's try again, shall we?" and she removes his ring finger, the shears cutting through the flesh and bone with a wet crunch.

Rulindil screams this time, the pain of losing two fingers lancing through his arm. Pain that is no doubt amplified by the glow dust poisoning his blood and sapping his magicka away. "All right! Stop! Just tell me what you want!"

"Do you think I'm doing this because I want something?" Lumen asks, amused.

"Everyone wants something," he gasps, "everyone has a price."

"I want the usual, I guess," Lumen tells him, then in a bored voice she says, "I want you to cry and scream, and _beg_. And I want you to attempt to appeal to my sense of empathy- only to find that it's just not there. Then you might cry a bit more," she pauses, then thoughtfully adds, "I'd like that, I think. And then, when I am ready, I'll end your miserable life."

Rulindil stares at her as if stunned. As if he's never killed anyone simply for the pleasure of the act. "But, _why_?"

" _Because_ ," Lumen hisses, and she throws the shears to the ground. Grabbing the curved blade, she pushes herself onto the desk and leans over Rulindil until they are nose-to-nose. "Because you tortured my mother for _days_ , and because I can't get her screams out of my head. I don't know why Malrian asked you to do it, and I don't care, all I know is you're going to die and I'm going to feel much better afterwards."

"Malrian? _Wait_ , you're- you're Ara's girl, then?" Rulindil asks, then he quickly adds, "Malrian thought she was a spy, or an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood... He thought he could get information out of her, but she wouldn't talk!"

Lumen snarls, and places the tip of the blade just beneath his eye, "Why would he think my mother was part of the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Malrian couldn't believe that Aranwen simply wanted him dead and out of the way, his pride wouldn't allow it. He thought she'd been hired to assassinate him. It's part of the reason he- "

"Go on," Lumen presses the blade against his flesh with more force.

Rulindil gasps. "What do I get if I tell you?"

"You get to keep your eye," Lumen says, a most generous offer, in her opinion.

"Malrian was an idiot," he says, and in response, Lumen eases the blade away from his skin. "He was obsessed with Aranwen and he took her betrayal particularly hard."

"Tell me something I don't know," Lumen snaps.

"He never could believe that Ara wasn't a part of the Brotherhood. He didn't think you had anything to do with it, obviously, you were just a child. But- Malrian was so angry, he could think of nothing else. So he, and his contingent of Thalmor agents organized the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood… And they succeeded."

"That's not entirely accurate," Lumen says. She hooks her blade beneath his chin, the tip pricking his skin and drawing forth a droplet of blood. "But tell me exactly how he 'destroyed' the Dark Brotherhood. Tell me, and I just might let you live." Lumen knows this information will mean nothing to her, she knows nothing of the Brotherhood prior to her short time with them. But it might mean something to Cicero.

"All I know is that the Aldmeri Dominion wanted the Dark Brotherhood out of the picture for a long time. Their presence in Cyrodiil was a real problem for us. Somehow, Malrian got in contact with an assassin from the Brotherhood, and he paid the assassin to filter him information about the Brotherhood. Like I said, _everyone_ has a price."

"Who was this assassin?" Lumen asks, hooking the blade beneath the collar of his robes, cutting them down the middle and exposing Rulindil's skin to the cold, dungeon air.

He hisses. "W-what are you doing?"

"Answer my question," Lumen flicks Rulindil on the nose. "I want a name."

"I don't know his name!"

"That's too bad," she says, and she presses the tip of the blade against his skin, just below his sternum. "You know what _I_ don't know?"

Rulindil shivers, his face going a little pale. "W-what?"

"I don't know how long someone can live once their intestines have been removed. So let's find out, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is a dialogue-heavy information dump, but I do hope you all enjoy it! I had fun writing it. Not much Cicero in this one, but don't worry! The next chapter will make up for that, I promise. ;)
> 
> Arsenicum is the Latin word for arsenic. I know it's probably not super lore-friendly, but I wasn't sure which alchemy ingredients would be used for pesticides/corpse preservation so... I guess I went out on a limb with that one.
> 
> I want to thank Heiwako for beta-reading this for me, and thanks to everyone for all the kudos and reviews! I really appreciate them! :)


	9. Breaching Security

_Her mother is soft-spoken and proper, and Lumen doesn't want to believe those screams could possibly belong to her. Not those horrible blood-curdling howls of pain, or the shrieks that seem to go on and on, until her voice cracks from the strain of screaming for so long._

_Weeks prior, Malrian had fallen ill. Somehow he'd known her mother was the cause, he'd known she had poisoned him. His guards raided her mother's alchemy lab, and after they found the foxglove seeds, they dragged her mother off to the dungeons and Lumen had been locked in her room._

_Lumen has not been treated badly. She still has her books and a window to the outside world, and she's brought meals three times a day. She just can't leave. Lumen hoped her mother had been being shown the same kindness, but those hopes were dashed days ago when the screaming began. There's nothing she can do to drown out the noise, she has no choice but to listen and count down the minutes until it finally stops._

_She's starting to learn the different screams too. From the howling sobs to the high-pitched wails that eventually dissolve into whimpering and then silence only for it to start all over again hours later._

_The door to her room creaks open, and Malrian steps inside. It's the first time Lumen has seen him since her mother poisoned him. His face is more gaunt than usual and there are dark circles under his eyes, but he looks very much the same as he always has._

_Lumen runs toward him. "Malrian, someone is hurting mama!" she exclaims, her little fingers curling into his black robes as fresh tears well up in her eyes. "Please help her! Please make them stop!"_

_Malrian kneels down and looks her in the eyes. "I can't, little dove," he says as he pulls her into an embrace. "I can't, I'm sorry. I have no choice."_

" _Please," she sobs, "I don't want to hear her scream anymore, please help her, please-" her voice breaks and mournful sobs wrack her body. It's the first time anyone has offered her any comfort or affection since her mother has been taken away. She's been so sad, so worried and so alone. Lumen clings to Malrian and utterly falls apart in his arms._

" _Hush, little one," he murmurs, stroking her hair. "There's nothing I can do."_

" _But why?" Lumen asks, cringing a little. Her mother always taught her to never question her elders, but she can't help it. "I don't understand why you can't help her."_

" _Because Rulindil outranks me, and he's the one who's questioning your mother," Malrian tells her, his voice low and soft. "All she has to do is answer him."_

" _Mama always tells the truth," Lumen says, wiping her eyes. "What does he want to know?"_

" _He wants to know who your mother is working for," Malrian explains. "He wants to know why she tried to poison me," Malrian pauses, glancing down at her. "Do you know?"_

_Lumen shakes her head. Her mother always told her to feign ignorance, no matter what. To never admit to knowing anything about the poison. She still didn't understand why her mother wanted to kill Malrian, he's only ever been kind to Lumen. Even now, after her mother tried to kill him, he's here, comforting her and offering her more affection than her mother ever has. "He's- he's not going to hurt me, is he?" she asks._

_Malrian holds her tight, his hand covering her ear, while her other is pressed against his chest. Lumen pushes harder against him, breathing in his scent and listening to his steady heartbeat, which drowns out her mother's screams. "Don't worry, little dove," he says softly. "I won't let him hurt you."_

* * *

There isn't much that surprises Elenwen anymore.

So when she discovers that her kitchen staff has completely vanished (with the exception of the Khajiit, who is out of her mind on moon sugar) she can only muster enough energy to feel mild annoyance. Good help is hard to find after all, and most Bosmer she came across were fairly worthless. So it's not much of a surprise when she notices that Malborn and the girl have gone missing. She can only assume they're doing what their species does best - hiding in some dark corner and rutting like wild animals.

Elenwen is only vaguely irritated when she exits the kitchen through the back door, and comes across the bodies of two guards and a mage. She's actually _startled_ when she discovers that her solar has been broken into, her desk raided, and _none_ of her guards saw the culprit. What's worse is that Rulindil was in the dungeon interrogating a prisoner the entire time and he didn't hear a thing! Elenwen squares her shoulders as she pushes the dungeon doors open, ready to harangue the Third Emissary for being so incompetent.

"Rulindil!" Elenwen holds her head high as she enters the dungeon. "Are you aware that my solar was broken into? And I wonder where-" she's halfway down the stairs when words fail her, and her mouth hangs open at the sight that greets her. She quickly collects herself and closes her mouth with a snap. Even in situations as disturbing as _this_ , it would not do for the First Emissary to stand around with her mouth hanging open like a simpleton. While she's seen some terrible things and done some terrible things, the sight of the Third Emissary's mutilated corpse is enough to rattle her. Not to mention the scent of spilled blood and bowel is almost overwhelming, even to a seasoned Thalmor such as herself.

A quick glance around the room assures her that she is alone; whoever did this to Rulindil is long gone by now. Taking a breath to steel herself, she descends the staircase and stands on the bottom step to avoid getting her boots bloody. There is blood _everywhere_. The floor is a glittering sea of crimson and there are splatters of blood across the walls and ceiling.

Elenwen has seen her fair share of interrogations that ended in death, and it's obvious what happened to Rulindil was _not_ done for information. This has personal written all over it. He's split open from sternum to pelvis, with most of his inner workings on display. His intestines have been pulled out and haphazardly thrown onto the blood-soaked floor. He's missing some fingers, his tongue, and it looks like someone tried to remove his eyes, but they stopped for some reason.

Turning around slowly, Elenwen climbs the staircase and quietly shuts the dungeon door behind her. She steps into her office and pours herself a shot of Colovian Brandy, swallows it down, then pours another for good measure. She wonders who could've possibly done such a thing. The only real clue is the fact that Malborn and that Bosmer girl are both missing, and that there were two pairs of bloody footprints leading to the trap door in the floor of the dungeon. Elenwen refuses to believe that coward Malborn is the one who put Rulindil through what appears to be a conscious vivisection, and it certainly couldn't be the work of the girl… Or could it?

Elenwen recalls the way the girl looked when Avaeril was searching her. At first she'd taken pity on the Bosmer, the poor girl appeared sick with fear. Perhaps it wasn't fear that Elenwen saw in her, but something else. That thought annoys her, as she is seldom ever wrong about people, and now her mistake has cost her a handful of soldiers and her Third Emissary. Not to mention the dossiers containing information on two Blades agents and Ulfric Stormcloak have been stolen, along with a note from Rulindil.

Elenwen's head begins to ache at the mere idea that the Blades could be behind this little fiasco.

She rubs her temples, deciding that there will be plenty of time for speculation later. For now, there's a mess in the dungeon that her surviving guards need to deal with. After two drinks, Elenwen's mask of steely indifference is back in place, and she lifts her proud chin as she steps out of her solar.

* * *

Lumen sighs as Malborn vomits for the umpteenth time. "Are you trying to leave a trail of puke for the Thalmor to track us with? _Come on_ ," she grabs him by the arm, but he pulls away from her.

"Don't touch me!" he shrieks, stumbling over an unearthed tree root and falling onto his rear. "Just stay away! I don't need your help!" gasping, Malborn rolls to his knees before retching again. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and in a weak voice he says, "I knew this would end badly. I can't believe I let Delphine talk me into this. I can't believe Delphine associates with someone like _you_!"

Growing rather tired of this, Lumen makes a show of impatiently tapping her foot as she waits for Malborn to collect himself. "Spare me the theatrics, Malborn. That bastard deserved what he got."

"You're as bad as they are," he says, pushing himself to his feet. "You're no better than the Thalmor."

"Look, I don't care if the Thalmor find you, drag you back to that dungeon, and torture you to death. But I can't risk you telling them any information about me or Delphine, so pull yourself together and get moving!"

"I- I wouldn't tell them anything!" Malborn pleads, clearly willing to risk dealing with the Thalmor over Lumen. "Besides, they're going to be hunting me down for the rest of my life thanks to you, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. They probably think I was the one that- that-"

Malborn doubles over and heaves, although nothing comes out, and Lumen would be amazed if he had anything left in his stomach at this point.

"I doubt it," she mutters. Irritated that Malborn is acting so ridiculous. "If you're quite finished, I'd like to get away from the damn Embassy as quickly as possible."

Malborn cowers in the shadow of a tree, his shoulders rising and falling with each panicked breath. "You- you promise you're taking me to Riverwood? You're not going to kill me too?"

"If I wanted you dead I would've killed you at the Embassy," Lumen says, realizing that probably isn't a comforting statement coming from a woman covered in blood and gore. Malborn's palpable fear has Lumen yearning to be home. To be with the people who truly accepted her and even praised her for what she is. She blows out a breath, taken aback when she realizes how much she misses her family. It's almost painful. Especially the strange, crushing sensation she feels in her chest whenever she thinks of them.

It's unfamiliar and wholly uncomfortable. It only ever happened in her childhood when she would think of her mother. But eventually that feeling mutated into anger, and it was focused not just at Malrian, but everyone. Lumen prefers the familiar refuge of indifference and anger compared to this vulnerable feeling taking their place. It scares her. The walls she's spent so much time constructing around her heart are starting to crack, and dangerous, unknown emotions are seeping through.

"Come on," she says, a little softer this time. "I promise I'm not going to hurt you. I'm trying to keep you safe."

Malborn looks up at her. "You're more worried about yourself than my well-being," he says, spitefully. But he does stand, and moves toward Lumen on unsteady feet. "I guess I have no choice but to trust you."

* * *

After two days of travel, Lumen and Malborn arrive at the Sleeping Giant Inn, both are grateful to be off the road and closer to being away from each other.

Delphine looks up from a table she's clearing, a flicker of surprise passing over her face when she sees them walk in. "Orgnar, mind the front," she says quickly, then motions for the two to follow her. Once inside her bedroom, she shuts the door and looks them over thoughtfully before saying, "All right, Malborn first."

Lumen finds it interesting that Delphine is not willing to take them down into her secret room, but she remains silent and takes a seat at the small table in the corner of the room. She wonders if Delphine trusts her resolve more than Malborn's. Lumen has been through her fair share of pain and managed to keep her secrets, and she's fairly certain that Malborn wouldn't make it through five minutes of interrogation. Perhaps Delphine can see that too, and she isn't willing to take any risks with him.

Malborn paces nervously, glancing around as if the walls have eyes, "I just need safe passage to Morrowind. I- I don't know where else to go, but I'm sure the Thalmor won't follow me there."

"I can help you with that," Delphine says, looking guilty. "I'm sorry, Malborn, I didn't think you'd have to run after this."

"I knew _some_ of the risks," he says, turning to glare at Lumen. "What I didn't know is that _she_ is a bloodthirsty killer! You should have seen all the bodies she left behind. I thought she was only going to steal information, not go on a killing spree!"

"Keep your voice down," Delphine hisses, then looks to Lumen. "How many?"

"Only five," Lumen says, ashamed she hadn't bothered to kill more. "I'm just one woman, after all. I couldn't take down the entire embassy by myself."

"There are five less Thalmor in the world thanks to you, so I'm not going to complain," Delphine says, smiling faintly.

"You should've seen what she did to one of them- oh, gods," Malborn covers his mouth again, looking a little pale. "I can't even think about it."

Delphine glances at Lumen, expecting an answer, and Lumen smiles at her. "Let's just say the interrogator spilled _his_ guts this time," she says, unable to suppress a laugh, and laughing harder when Malborn groans.

"Right," Delphine says, giving Lumen an odd look but saying nothing more on the matter. "Malborn, why don't you go out front so I can talk to Lumen alone? Orgnar will take care of you, set you up with a room and some food and drink when you want it."

Malborn nods and slips out of the room, leaving the two women alone. Delphine pulls a key from her pocket and unlocks the door that leads to the secret room. "Come on, I want to talk to you."

Lumen follows. "He's awfully squeamish," she says, pulling the door to the room shut and following Delphine down the stairs.

"He's been through a lot. His entire family was killed in the Valenwood purges," Delphine explains. "It wouldn't kill you to be nice."

"I'm always nice."

Delphine snorts at that. "All joking aside, I want to know what you found out."

"Oh, you mean apart from _jack_ and _shit_?" Lumen says, and at Delphine's answering glare she continues, "I found some files that you might find interesting, but the Thalmor don't know anything about the dragons returning. They are trying to find out, however." Lumen produces three dossiers from her pack and lays them on the table. "There's a dossier on you, you know."

"I expected that. They've been after me for years."

"There's one on Ulfric Stormcloak too," Lumen says, tapping on the dossier in question.

Delphine shrugs. "Interesting, but useless at the moment. What's in the third?"

"It's got information on a man named Esbern. They were interrogating someone trying to find out where he is."

"What? He's alive?" Delphine asks, grabbing the dossier and flipping it open. "I figured the Thalmor must have got him years ago. But it figures that they would be on his trail if they're trying to find information on dragons. The man is an expert on ancient dragon lore," Delphine says, looking up from the dossier. "We need to find him."

"What's with this 'we' business? _You_ can find him. Apparently he's somewhere in Riften. I bet you could bribe someone in the Ragged Flagon to tell you where's he's at."

"But-"

"You probably wouldn't need to bribe anyone. I bet you'd loosen a few tongues just by batting those pretty Breton lashes of yours."

"Lumen-"

"Delphine," Lumen slams her hands down on the wooden table, almost knocking over a candle in the process. "Do it yourself," she growls, "I went to the Embassy - which I did not want to do, mind you - and I found you those files. I am not going to Riften to hunt down some old man. I am done playing the part of your servant. Find me when there's a dragon that needs to die, otherwise, find someone else to do your dirty work."

Delphine's nostrils flare as she sucks in a sharp breath, her jaw tightening with anger. "But you agreed to do it just so you could kill Rulindil. If the Thalmor are after Esbern, I'm sure there will be more for you to kill in Riften," she says, her voice tight.

Lumen closes her eyes, the ever-present need to kill satisfied for now thanks to her little bloodbath at the Embassy. Despite her annoyance with Delphine, she still feels the tenuous calm that always comes after death. It won't last, but it is enough to keep her thoughts clear for now.

"I know that, but I'm exhausted and I want to go home," Lumen says, knowing she sounds whiny and petulant, but she's homesick and hardly concerned about Delphine's opinion of her. It can't get any lower at this point, anyway.

Delphine sighs, knowing that the fight is lost. "Where can I contact you if I need you? I don't even know where you live."

"Just send a message to the Dead Man's Drink in Falkreath," Lumen tells her, shouldering her pack. "Are we done?"

"We're _done_ , Dragonborn," Delphine sneers.

* * *

"I could use a little direction here..."

Lumen lowers herself to an unbroken, stone bench in front of the Night Mother's coffin. A hot meal and a warm bath has washed away the irritation from her conversation with Delphine, but her mind is still reeling from what Rulindil told her. Not to mention the fact that she needs to tell Cicero, but she dreads doing so. Still, he deserves to know seeing as he's the only person in this sanctuary who was directly affected by the fall of the Cyrodiil sanctuaries. How affected, Lumen doesn't know, but considering his erratic nature she can only guess the loss of his family warped him substantially.

"Or maybe some motherly advice?" she asks, staring at the silent corpse. Silent because she already knows what she's supposed to do. That doesn't stop her from hoping for another answer. An _easier_ answer. One that doesn't involve trudging through her murky past or prodding at old wounds.

The ever present warmth of the Night Mother's presence and the soft thrumming of what sounds like a distant heartbeat comforts her somewhat. Lumen inhales deeply, enjoying the scents of nightshade and beeswax mulling in the air. The pleasing aroma and the warmth draw her into a more relaxed state, and she supposes if this is the only comfort the Night Mother means to give her, she'll gladly take it.

"Lumen!" Cicero shrieks, startling her out of her brooding. He slides onto the stone bench and wraps his arms around her. "Cicero has been worried! You said you would be back in a week, but you were _three days late_ , and poor Cicero thought something terrible might have happened to you! But here you are, safe and whole."

"I was delayed," she says, shifting within the confines of his arms. She gives up on escaping and settles for awkwardly returning the hug instead.

"Obviously. But why didn't you at least tell Cicero you were home?" he asks, looking about as heartbroken as he possibly can. "Cicero understands that you missed Mother, of course, but Cicero was worried and he is not used to worrying."

Lumen sighs. "You worry all the time. About _everything_ -"

"That is not the point!" he snaps, "Cicero was more worried than usual because his sweet Lumen was off dealing with the nasty Thalmor all on her own!"

Cicero's concern for her well-being quiets her. Though a distant part of her mind tells her that the only reason he's worried is because he doesn't want to lose the Listener, not _her._ But really, she doesn't care what his reasons are. It's rather nice, if a little annoying, to have someone care enough to worry.

Lumen untangles herself from his arms, which is not a simple task given his excited state. "Well, I'm here now," she says.

Cicero smiles at that. "Yes you are! Will you be home for long? Cicero has been rather _bored_."

"I'll be home until Astrid gives me a new contract," Lumen says. "I need a few days of rest after dealing with Delphine and the Thalmor, anyway."

"Ah, that reminds Cicero. Before you left you promised you would tell me what Delphine meant when she called you 'Dragonborn'. Cicero has been wondering which one of your parents was the dragon. That had to be an interesting courtship."

Lumen laughs. "Do I look like I'm part dragon to you?"

Cicero grins at her. "No, you don't look like a dragon," he says thoughtfully, then adds, "though you do have the temperament of one."

Lumen regards him coolly for that comment but doesn't rise to the bait. "It doesn't mean I'm actually a dragon. From what I understand, it means I have the soul of a dragon. I only found out a few months ago when I helped some Whiterun guards take down a dragon. I'd hoped to be paid well for my trouble and that would be the end of it, but when it died I- I took it's soul."

Cicero stares at her for a few seconds before bursting into a fit of laughter. "Oh! That's a good one! Ha ha ha! Stealing the souls of dragons? Really, dear Lumen, how gullible do you think I am?" he laughs again before nudging her with his elbow. "You had Cicero believing you for a bit."

"It's true," she says, laughter in her voice. "I can shout-"

"So can Cicero. Would you like a demonstration?"

"No!" Lumen places her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, "I mean I can shout like the dragons do." Cicero raises his brows in question, and Lumen sighs, "Come on, I'll show you what I mean," she says, grabbing his hand and pulling him from the bench. There's no way on Nirn she'd consider unleashing a shout so near the Night Mother. So she leads Cicero to the main area of the sanctuary which houses the training area and the forge. The cavern is empty at the moment. Even the ever-present figure of Arnbjorn haunting his forge is absent.

Lumen turns to face Cicero. "When I say 'shout' I don't simply mean, er, shouting. I use the Thu'um, the dragon language and... I don't really know how to explain it. But it's kind of like voice magic, I guess."

"Dragon souls and voice magic," Cicero looks at Lumen like _she's_ the crazier one of the two.

Lumen sighs, stepping away from him and facing the pool of water. "This one is my favorite," she tells him. Then, she sucks in a deep breath, focusing on the word and the feeling of the word and nothing else. This invokes the memory of the dragon that gave her the knowledge of the word, and the thoughts his soul brought to her. His hopes, dreams, and memories. Images of a scintillating inferno engulfing a mortal city rises up in her mind, along with a feeling of triumph as she unleashes the shout.

" **YOL**!"

A gout of flame billows forth from her mouth, dissolving into hissing steam when it hits the cool, spring water. Her chest, throat and mouth are warm, like she just had her first sip of too-hot tea.

Cicero gapes at her. His eyes wide in amazement. "The Listener... can breathe fire," he whispers, stepping closer to her. His voice growing louder as a manic grin spreads across his face. " _You_ can breathe _fire_!"

"Well it's more shouting than breathing, but- yeah," she stammers, nervously wringing her hands together.

"Lumen breathes fire," he whispers as he reaches for her. His fingers trace her lips, which are still hot from the flames. Then his eyes flick up to hers; dark and dilated with only a thin ring of brown around the edges and, by Sithis- is he aroused? Well, Lumen supposes the idea of being able to kill someone with a mere breath would be arousing to Cicero.

Cicero boosts himself up onto the tips of his toes and presses his lips to hers. This kiss is ridiculously gentle, but it still takes her by surprise. So far, she's always been the one to initiate things between them, and perhaps that is why Cicero seems almost nervous. Lumen presses closer to him, enjoying how soft and cool his lips are in contrast to the residual heat her shout left behind.

"Well _this_ is something to walk in on…"

They both pull apart, turning toward the sound of Gabriella's voice.

"Sorry to interrupt," Gabriella says, and she appears more amused than contrite. "But I do need to speak with Lumen about her next contract. Would you mind giving us a moment, Keeper? Then you can get back to- well, you know."

"Oh, of course, dear sister," Cicero purrs. "Cicero will leave you to it!" and with that, he canters up the stone staircase that leads to the chapel and the bedrooms, leaving the two women alone to talk.

Gabriella moves to stand next to Lumen with an eager grin on her lips. "Really, sister? Him? I never would've guessed."

Lumen shrugs, uncertain of what to say to her Dunmer sister. "So, this contract?"

"In a moment," Gabriella says, draping her arm around Lumen's shoulders. "Details, sister. I want all the filthy, depraved, sordid details about your little tryst with the Keeper."

"You're so nosy," Lumen says, her lips quirking in a smile. "Besides, all you need to know is exactly what you saw. I'm not telling you anything else."

"I saw you two break apart like errant children, as if I would scold you," she laughs. "And I am _not_ nosy. There just hasn't been anything truly interesting happening in this dull sanctuary since Astrid and Arnbjorn got together, and they've been together for so long there's no sense in gossiping about it. But _this_ \- this is new and interesting and maybe a little odd, I must admit."

"What's so odd about it?"

"Cicero," Gabriella answers simply. "But I don't blame you. The crazy ones are always absolute maniacs in bed."

"Well, I've never been the type to kiss and tell," she says, although if she's honest, she's never had anyone ask about her sexual exploits either. Lumen isn't certain how she's supposed to respond. "And- he's not _that_ crazy. No more crazy than I am, really."

"Oh, now that _is_ sweet. You're defending him."

Lumen huffs and folds her arms, trying not to smile but failing miserably. "Come on, Gabriella, just tell me about my contract."

"You're no fun," Gabriella pouts, but eventually relents and says, "Astrid put me in charge of setting up your next contract, and I think you'll like this one. You're to kill a man named Gaius Maro. Then," she pauses and hands Lumen a small, folded letter, "You'll need to plant this letter on his corpse."

"Sounds simple enough. Where will I find him?"

"He'll be traveling to different cities all over Skyrim, and it would be best if you killed him in one of those cities rather than on the road just to ensure that his body is found quickly." Gabriella hands her another slip of parchment and says, "since I'm so helpful and generous, I took the liberty of procuring his travel schedule for you."

"Thanks, that'll certainly save me some time," Lumen says, glancing over the schedule.

"Yes it will. Now I hope you feel sufficiently guilty for keeping juicy secrets from me."

"Not at all."

"Damn," Gabriella says goodnaturedly, then leans closer to Lumen. "Well sister, I will tell you this; Astrid has been suspicious of you ever since our Unholy Matron spoke to you, and I know you are aware that she's had her reservations about Cicero all along. I think it would be in your best interest to keep your little affair a secret for now, unless you want to give her yet another reason to distrust you."

"Oh," Lumen feels her stomach drop. "I hadn't thought about that."

"It's probably nothing to worry about," Gabriella says, trying to sound reassuring. "But it might be wise to tread lightly around Astrid until she becomes accustomed to the idea of there being a Listener again."

"Thanks, Gabriella. I will," Lumen sighs. She knew Astrid had been unnerved by her claim to be the Listener, and she'd hoped leading her to Motierre would've smoothed that over, but it didn't. Astrid had seemed rather agitated with her the last time they spoke. When is she going to let this go? It's not as if Lumen is trying to take her place.

" _Now_ do you feel guilty for holding out on me?"

"A little."

"Good," Gabriella grins, turning on her heel and sauntering back to the alchemy room. "Have fun killing Maro, dear," she calls over her shoulder before disappearing through the doorway.

Lumen wanders off in search of Cicero, and she finds him in his bedroom, sitting at the table near a low burning candle and idly flipping through a tattered copy of Thief of Virtue. Rays of sunlight stream through the small crack in the ceiling of the partially caved-in room. The extra light only serves to deepen the shadows lingering in the farthest corners, making the room seem smaller than it actually is. Cicero looks up from the book, his eyes on Lumen as she comes to stand beneath the small hole in the ceiling.

She gazes up through it, watching the sky change from blue to a brilliant shade of orange as Magnus begins to set. " _I should tell him now,"_ she thinks. " _He deserves to know, but if Astrid were to overhear about the fall of the Cyrodiil Sanctuaries and how I lived with the Altmer that orchestrated it all, it will just add to her suspicions. And what of Cicero? Will he trust me after all is said and done?"_

"A septim for your thoughts?" Cicero asks, his voice tugging Lumen from her internal debate.

" _Later- I'll tell him later. I can't risk being overheard. He'll understand... I hope."_

Lumen smiles for his benefit, though it goes a bit wan. "I'm just- thinking about my next contract," she says, sparing a glance at Gaius Maro's travel schedule. "I'm not sure which city to kill him in. Seems like he'll be staying in guard barracks or with the various jarl's. It's going to be hard to do this without being seen."

"May I?" Cicero asks, reaching for the schedule. Lumen lets him take it, and she leans against the table. "Hmm, Cicero would suggest Markarth," he finally says, handing the parchment back to her.

"Really? Why there?"

"Because Maro has two days off after his stay there, and isn't there a Temple of Dibella in Markarth? It makes sense that a lonely soldier might spend a day off there, and Cicero is certain he'll go to the temple alone."

"I see your point. But what if he's got a sweetheart waiting on him, and he's so madly in love with them that he'd never dream of finding his pleasure with a Priestess of Dibella."

Cicero chuckles softly. "When has love ever stopped people from lying, cheating, or otherwise doing terrible things to each other?"

Lumen shrugs. "All right, I'll start in Markarth, but if you're wrong I'll never let you hear the end of it," she says, grinning at him.

"Cicero would expect nothing less from you."

"So if I am to kill Maro in Markarth, that means I'll have to leave tomorrow," Lumen says.

"That is true," Cicero says, and Lumen doesn't miss the way his near-constant grin fades at the thought of being alone again.

"In that case," she begins to unlace her tunic, which does bring the smile back to Cicero's lips. "I suppose we should make hay while the sun is still shining."

"Cicero could not agree more."

* * *

Markarth is exactly as Lumen remembers it; crowded and seething with a bitter hatred she can't place. It even smells the way she remembers; of petrichor and the sulfurous stench of hot metal in the smelters. Tensions are high, and among the chatter of the crowd she can hear someone shouting about the Forsworn as she passes by a bridge where a strange man mutters something about blood and silver.

Gaius Maro has been easy enough to stalk, seeing as he stands out like a sore thumb in his Penitus Oculatus armor. He's also been terribly boring to watch. He stops to chat with each guard for ages before finally moving on to the next, it's difficult for Lumen to keep her mind from wandering.

Lumen is doubtful of Cicero's theory that the man will pay a visit to the Temple of Dibella. Still, she's got little else to go on at the moment, and the porch of the temple has proven to be an excellent place to keep an eye on Maro since it's high above the city. Lumen sits upon the stonework ledge that surrounds the porch, ignored by the men and women who visit the temple throughout the day as she watches Maro make his rounds.

Hours pass, and day fades into evening when Lumen eventually loses sight of Maro. That is, until he ascends the steps to the temple.

"Good evening, sir," she says, trying to sound as innocent as she possibly can.

"A good evening to you, my lady," Maro says, stepping a little closer to where Lumen sits. "Are you a priestess?"

"N- no, a patron. Or I would be a patron if I was brave enough to step inside."

Maro smiles. "Ah, your first time then? There's nothing to be embarrassed of. The priestesses are nothing if not professional and understanding."

"I'm sure they are, but…"

Intrigued, Maro comes to sit next to Lumen. "But?"

"Well, I noticed they're all women and I've- I've never-"

"Oh," Maro says, then reaches out to pat Lumen on the shoulder. "If it makes you feel any better, my first time was with a Priestess of Dibella."

"Really?" Lumen asks, looking up at him.

"Yes, really. Believe me, I was a nervous wreck when I walked into that temple. You're holding together much better than I was," he tells her, a warm smile lighting up his face.

"Thank you for telling me," Lumen smiles and wraps her arms around him, taking a moment to slip the incriminating letter into a pouch attached to his belt before letting him go. "I do feel a little better now."

Maro seems a little surprised at the sudden embrace, but he laughs nervously and adds, "Well, it helps to know that you're not alone."

"That's true," Lumen murmurs, then lunges forward, her hands splayed against Maro's chest as she shoves him with all her might. To his credit, he'd not been expecting the shy Bosmer to attack him, and he falls backwards over the stone ledge and to the streets below with a sickening crack.

Lumen calmly descends the steps as she listens to the screams of people below, proud that she made Maro's death appear to be a suicide. Well, she hopes it will appear that way. It will certainly give the incriminating letter a little more credibility since an innocent man would have no reason to kill himself.

Eager to be home, Lumen rides all night from Markarth to Falkreath. She can't wait to tell Cicero how right he was, even if it means he'll tease her for doubting him. But when Lumen arrives home, she walks in on complete and utter chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters, I was juggling a lot of projects, and they slowed me down a bit. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, next up is a Cure For Madness! Are you excited? I know I am!


	10. The Cure For Madness

Gone, gone, gone. His Listener _gone_ on yet another contract and poor Cicero is left all alone. He understands why she must leave, but he misses her when she is away from home. She talks to him more than the others do, and genuinely seems to enjoy poor Cicero's company. Well- she enjoys more than just his company if the fresh scratch marks down his back are anything to judge by. He enjoys that part of their friendship as well. It's been so long since Cicero has touched another living soul, so long since anyone looked past the jester and saw the man beneath.

Maybe she isn't looking very far. Maybe she doesn't care to. Maybe all she bothers to see is that Cicero is a good Keeper, willing to tend to the Listener in any way she needs. And if she wants to use him for physical pleasure, who is he to complain? It's been years since anyone has used him in such an enjoyable way. He smiles when he remembers how she'd suggested they 'make hay while the sun is still shining' then thrown her tunic off without so much as a second thought and straddled Cicero's lap. Her mouth claiming his while she guided his hands to her bare breasts, and when his arousal was obvious, she only pulled his trousers down enough to free his erection before sinking down on him. He's surprised the rickety, wooden chair didn't break from their combined weight.

One day, he'll convince the impatient Bosmer to slow down a bit. He'll show her that the journey is just as important as the destination. Now is not the time to think of such things, though. No, no, it's too distracting, and Cicero cannot afford to be distracted when he's trying to help Babette take inventory of the alchemy stores.

"Did you hear me?" Babette asks.

"What? Yes, of course! Dearest Babette said we need some more- umm-"

"Ice wraith teeth," she says, her fanged smile growing wide. "Why don't we take a little break? We've been at this for hours anyway."

Cicero nods, sighing as he sits on the bench in the small alcove that leads from the alchemy room to the main area. Falkreath Sanctuary is beginning to feel a little bit more like home to Cicero. His brothers and sisters are finally accepting his little eccentricities and the occasional excited babbling about the Night Mother. Babette, Gabriella and Festus are always kind, as is Veezara. But Cicero could tell he'd have to work a little harder to win Nazir over, and he'd already written Arnbjorn off as a lost cause. He didn't really like the sheepdog, anyway.

Astrid is another matter entirely. Cicero is always polite to her, but he does not kiss her feet as the others do. More than once he's overheard her not-so-quietly mocking him, and Cicero has tried to put it out of his mind. There's no reason to be angry. There is a Listener now, and Mother has spoken to her and eventually everything will be put right.

Everyone is home tonight, with the exception of Lumen, who should be home within the hour if Cicero's estimations are correct. The sanctuary is oddly silent, and perhaps that is why Arnbjorn's voice seems more loud and abrasive than usual, even if he is attempting to speak in a hushed tone. Sound travels quite well across the stone walls of their home, and Astrid and her dog seldom have a care to lower their voices.

"- disturbing sounds coming from his room a few nights ago."

"Arn, I really don't want to know," Astrid says, her voice tinged with disgust. "He's probably bringing himself off while thinking about that dried up relic."

Babette slowly turns to look at Cicero, her eyes wide with worry and looking every bit a fearful child rather than a bloodthirsty vampire. Cicero would feel guilty for frightening her if he could, as it is, it's all he can do to not choke on his contempt. _How dare she_! How dare that filthy, slandering harlot make an accusation such at _that_!

Arnbjorn's response is too muffled for Cicero to understand, but he can hear Astrid perfectly. "I'd sleep much more soundly if that withered corpse wasn't befouling my sanctuary."

He'll drown in this rage unless he manages to break the surface, and his deliverance is in his hands before the treacherous bitch finishes speaking. There is no hesitation as he draws the ebony dagger from its sheath at his hip, and there is no time to fret about the consequences.

Ever since he first laid eyes on Astrid there's been a slow-building anger brewing just beneath the surface, and while the discovery of the Listener had dampened it a bit, it'd never truly gone away. In some ways, it only made it worse. The pretender has her foot upon the throat of the Listener and the Listener seems content to allow it. It isn't right. Everything about this sanctuary is wrong, and Cicero can't understand how a fake sanctuary under the command of a heretic still stands. While the sanctuaries of his homeland, with brothers and sisters and true leaders who all respected and loved their Unholy Matron, fell.

It's enough to make him _sick_.

The moss-slicked walls of the sanctuary move past him in a blur, and Babette's cry of surprise is distant and muffled in the storm of Cicero's fury. There's movement all around him, but he pays it little mind. All he can see is Astrid, and she doesn't even have the decency to look shocked. It's as if she'd planned this. As if she's purposely been chipping away at Cicero, and eagerly awaiting the moment when his restraint finally snaps.

His ebony dagger streaks through the air with unfaltering purpose, and quicker than Cicero's ever felt it move. The blade thirsting for Astrid's blood as much as he, yet in his single-minded focus he doesn't notice Veezara until he's right in front of him, and his blade is plunging into the Argonian's stomach.

Reality comes crashing back to Cicero in a tempest of noise; Veezara's hiss of pain, Arnbjorn's inarticulate cry of rage, and Astrid's demands for Cicero's blood. There is no time left, no time to plan or to pack or to even bid Mother goodbye. With his dark brothers and sisters advancing on him, there's only one thing Cicero can do.

He runs.

* * *

Something is wrong.

There's movement within the main area. Voices raised in both anxiety and anger, and sight that greets Lumen chills her to the bone; Veezara, prone in a pool of blood, and Babette looking as if she might cry as she applies pressure to a seeping wound in his abdomen. Gabriella kneels beside him, the golden pulse of a healing spell flickering across his emerald scales. Festus stands nearby, prepared to cast when Gabriella's energy is spent. Nazir and Astrid stand away from the group, both engaged in a rather heated conversation. Lumen takes in the scene, her breath catching when she realizes both Arnbjorn and Cicero are nowhere to be seen.

Nazir is the first to notice her arrival. "There you are," he says, waving her over. "We need to talk. There's been an incident."

"What happened?" Lumen asks, a feeling of dread settling over her as the words tumble from her mouth.

"Cicero happened!" Astrid snaps. "The damn fool went berserk! He attacked me, and I'd be dead if Veezara hadn't intervened!"

"Where is Cicero now?" Lumen asks, speaking in carefully measured tones, not wishing to betray how worried she truly is.

"I have no idea. He fled after attacking me, and my husband chased after him," Astrid says, sparing a glance toward Veezara before turning back to Lumen.

"Why would he do this?" Lumen breathes, more to herself than anyone else. Cicero would never attack a family member without a damn good reason. Though, Lumen doesn't have to think too hard to guess what might set Cicero off.

"I don't know," Astrid says quickly, then purses her lips in irritation when Nazir narrows his eyes at her. "All right- he may have overheard me talking about the Night Mother. I was not entirely respectful." A crease forms along Astrid's brow as she glares at Lumen, her defenses going up. "You need to understand that this situation has been very _trying_ for me. I didn't think it would be a problem having the Night Mother here, but I didn't count on Cicero clinging so desperately to the old ways, and then _you_ come along and claim to be the Listener! I'm sorry but it's just- it's _ridiculous_."

Lumen clenches and unclenches her jaw, the effort of keeping her expression opaque is beginning to wear on her as anger burns in her chest. "What do you want me to do, Astrid?" she asks, flinching a little at the sharpness of her own words.

"I want you to find that Imperial fool, and I want you to kill him."

The familiarity of Astrid's words hit her like a kick to the chest, and it's a struggle to breathe or to remain calm. Her anger gives way to anxiety as a voice from her past rises up from the darkest depths of her mind.

_"Kill him, pet."_

A visible shiver runs down Lumen's spine. Malrian's voice is still so clear after so long, his polished tones still painfully digging at Lumen like the steel-tipped tail of a whip. "I- I can't," she stammers, momentarily losing control of her emotions.

"I know it might seem extreme," Astrid says, unaware of Lumen's distress. "But he tried to kill me. He's completely out of control and he needs to be put down."

There's no sense in arguing with Astrid. Not when this crushing anxiety is threatening to overpower her, and she refuses to lose control in front of Astrid, or Nazir, or _anyone_. Taking a step away from the two, Lumen looks down at her feet, unable to meet their eyes. "I'll see if I can figure out where Cicero might've gone," she says, before turning on her heel and running to Cicero's room.

Lumen rounds the doorway of his room and presses her back against the cool, granite wall. She takes deep, gasping breaths, and her fingers claw at her shrouded armor. Desperate to tear through it and scratch at her flesh until it's bloody and raw. Anything to stop the feeling of bugs crawling across her skin. Anything to stop the surge of panic that threatens to consume her. " _No, no, no. Not now_ ," she tells herself, her limbs shaking and her heart beating so hard it _hurts._

Lumen is so damn tired of following orders. She's tired of everyone telling her what to do, and pushing her around like she's nothing more than a thrall with no will of her own. Twenty years of that was long enough.

"I won't kill him," she whispers, her frantic breaths slowing when she gives voice to her decision. She's the Listener, not Astrid, and this is her choice. She will not kill Cicero, and if that flea-bitten beast Astrid calls a husband so much as harms a single hair on his head, she'll tear his heart out with her bare hands.

Clarity returns to her as she regains her composure, and when she looks up her gaze falls upon one of Cicero's many journals. She knew he wrote often, but she had never dared to look inside the books. Not knowing where else to begin in her search for clues, she pushes away from the wall to collect the small, leather bound books scattered around his room. Lumen settles upon his bed as she flips open the most recent journal, the dates on the others made it obvious they would not help her now, but she plans to read them later when there is more time. When Cicero's life is not on the line.

It doesn't take long for Lumen to find the clue she needs. "Dawnstar," she breathes, closing the journal with a snap. "I hate Dawnstar."

Lumen tucks the journals inside her pack and moves to stand, stopping when she notices something shining inside the half-open drawer of his nightstand. The light from the lone candle on the small table is glinting off of something within, and she tugs the drawer open to find three small vials of clear liquid. After dabbing the liquid on her finger and tasting it, Lumen realizes what they are; sleeping potions. Very strong sleeping potions, actually. Sleep doesn't come easy for Cicero, but she never knew he was taking potions for it. Lumen moves to place them back into the drawer, and pauses when she thinks better of it. Instead, she carefully wraps the small vials in cloth, and tucks them inside her pack alongside Cicero's journals. Satisfied that she has what she needs, Lumen makes her way through the sanctuary. Only stopping for a moment when she nears Astrid and Nazir.

"Well? Did you find anything?" Astrid asks, her demanding tone grating on Lumen's last nerve.

Lumen says nothing for a moment, and her gaze sweeps over Astrid's face, then to Nazir's. "I think Cicero might be heading to Dawnstar," Lumen says, her voice mild.

"There's an old sanctuary there, but how could be possibly know the passphrase? I don't even know the passphrase."

Lumen shrugs, seriously doubting Astrid doesn't know the passphrase to the only other sanctuary in Skyrim. "I don't know, but it's all I have to go on," Lumen says. "We can worry about the how's and the why's when I return."

Astrid nods. "You best hurry," she pauses, her teeth worrying at her lip for a moment. "Take Shadowmere. He's faster than your horse."

"All right," Lumen says, a little hesitant to ride the daedric steed on her own, but there's no denying that he's faster than Felix is. She takes a step away from Astrid, and pauses when the Nord reaches out to touch her shoulder.

"Lumen-"

Lumen sucks in a breath, and years of soothing an angry master come into play as she stops herself from snapping at Astrid. Instead, she smoothly steps out of her reach as she turns to face her. "Yes?" she asks, trying to sound concerned rather than annoyed.

"I don't know what Cicero is capable of, and my husband was so angry when he left. If- if he's injured-" Astrid's words falter, fear for her husband finally getting to the usually stoic woman.

Lumen's mouth curls into a tight smile. "Don't worry, Astrid. I'll take care of your husband."

With nothing more to be said, Lumen leaves the sanctuary and finds Shadowmere waiting by the black pool. The stallion approaches her, pushing his nose into her hand when she cautiously reaches out to pet him. He remains still when she pulls herself up to the saddle, it's as if the horse can sense how nervous she is, and Lumen is grateful if he can. Once settled, she lightly kicks his side, spurring him into action.

The trees of the forest whip by in a blur as the daedric steed tears down the well-traveled, dirt road. The night is quiet with the exception of the pounding of Shadowmere's hooves and the wind howling in Lumen's ears. There is little in the way of distraction, and Lumen finds herself lost in yet another memory. One that had faded into the deepest, recesses of her mind- until tonight.

_"Kill him, pet."_

_"I can't."_

_"You can," Malrian says, his hand resting on the back of Lumen's neck. "I know you can. I've seen you kill before, and I want to see it again."_

_Lumen stares at the figure in front of her. A Nord, one who has clearly been a prisoner for a long time, kneels in front of her. He's flanked by two of Malrian's guards; their chins high and eyes blank. "That was different," she says quietly._

_"If Abrin's churlish behavior was enough to inspire you to butcher him, then certainly this man's crimes will do the same. Would you like to know what he did?"_

_"I would."_

_"That's too bad," Malrian says, his grip on her neck tightening, his nails digging into her flesh and drawing a pained gasp from Lumen. "His crimes do not matter. What does matter is that I have given you an order," he leans close to her to whisper in her ear. "If you refuse, then I will kill him, which will seem like a mercy compared to what I will do to you. Do you understand?"_

_"I- I do," she stammers. "I apologize I didn't mean to give the impression that I was refusing. I'm just-" she hesitates, not knowing what to say, and terrified of angering him further. "I'm nervous," she finally says, though it's far from the truth. The truth is that she wants to. She wants to plunge her knife into the Nord's chest and watch his blood flow. More than that she wants to turn her knife on Malrian's guards, and maybe even Malrian himself._

_Lumen's fingers twist around the hilt of the knife, and Malrian's hand slides from her neck down to her lower back. "There's no reason to be nervous." He gently pushes her forward. "Go on, pet."_

Lumen grits her teeth, her grip on Shadowmere's reigns tightening. That Nord had been the first of many. Watching her kill eventually became a sport for Malrian. While the Imperials had their arena, and the commoners had their dog fights, Malrian had _her_. And when he became bored with watching her kill helpless victims, he would pit her against his guards. Lumen didn't mind, however. Killing for his entertainment had been the most simple thing he'd wanted from her, and she enjoyed it. It was thrilling and it was an escape. It didn't matter who her victims were, in her mind they would be whoever she wanted them to be. Eventually, it had become the only thing she looked forward to when she was with him. It was certainly better than dealing with his violent bursts of anger, his manipulation, or his unwanted affection.

Yet after thirteen years of blessed freedom, she's found herself on a new leash. Joining the Brotherhood wasn't a mistake, Lumen knows that. Killing is the one thing she's good at, and within the Brotherhood it has always been her choice to kill; she could choose to accept or refuse a contract. But now, Astrid is trying to take that choice away. Cicero is no contract, he's the Keeper of the Night Mother, and he's the first true friend Lumen's had in years. Astrid must be insane if she really believes she'll kill him.

* * *

It's daybreak when Lumen arrives in Dawnstar. The residents of the small, snowy town pay her no mind as Shadowmere smoothly trots through the streets and to the beach. Lumen wonders if the horse instinctively knows where the sanctuary is, or if he's following Arnbjorn's scent.

Arnbjorn is leaning against a large boulder near the cliffside, his hand pressed tightly over a seeping wound across his torso. "Should've known Astrid would send you," he says when Lumen approaches.

"You could _pretend_ to be grateful," Lumen says pointedly, and dismounts Shadowmere with a grunt. "I just rode all night to this frigid, little town because _your wife_ told me to. As a result, my ass is killing me and I am fairly certain that my tits are going to freeze off," she growls, each word coming out in a plume of vapor when her warm breath meets the cold air.

The Nord grins at her, amused at her irritation. "I'll be grateful if you actually prove to be useful, tidbit."

Lumen bites back a scathing retort and kneels down beside him to inspect his wound. "Tell me what happened."

Arnbjorn groans, his face pinched in pain. "I almost had the little fop, but he's a lot better with that knife than I gave him credit for," he gasps. "He's quick, too."

Lumen hands Arnbjorn her spare waterskin. "Where is Cicero now?"

"In there," Arnbjorn motions at the black door. "He ran into the sanctuary after he stuck me I tried to follow, but I don't know the passphrase," he says, then drinks greedily from the waterskin.

"Here," Lumen passes Arnbjorn a healing potion. "I don't know any healing spells, but this should help keep you alive until Babette can have a look at you. Astrid's worried about you, so take Shadowmere and go home. I'll deal with Cicero."

Arnbjorn downs the potion in a few swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "No way, tidbit. I'm going with you."

"Fine, but drink the rest of that water," Lumen says, tapping on the waterskin. "I don't need you passing out in there. Not to mention, Astrid will kill me if you die."

"I'm a lot stronger than you think. You forget that I carried your heavy carcass across the Pale and into Morthal," Arnbjorn points out, but does as she suggests and drinks more of the water.

Lumen snorts at that. "How would I remember?" she asks, watching Arnbjorn carefully. "I was unconscious."

"I like you better that way," he says, his words slurring a bit.

"Why's that?" Lumen asks, amused at his admission.

"Somethin' 'bout you- sets my- my teeth on edge," he murmurs, sluggishly lifting the waterskin to his lips again, then dropping it. Water spills across his chest as his body goes slack, his head rolling back to rest against the boulder. He sleepily mumbles something incoherent before his eyes fall closed.

"You're more intuitive than I thought, that's for sure," she says, standing up and smiling. Rather pleased that Cicero's sleeping potions worked so well. Lumen pats Arnbjorn on the head when he begins to snore loudly. "I think I like you better this way, too."

Lumen walks away from Arnbjorn, trusting Shadowmere to stand guard while she's inside the ancient sanctuary. The black door looms like an infernal beacon, beckoning her closer. A mix of excitement and trepidation filling her when the black door speaks.

_"What is life's greatest illusion?"_

"Innocence, my brother," Lumen answers, barely managing to stifle a laugh at the irony. The humor leaves her when the door swings open, and she enters the dark sanctuary. Lumen steadies herself by placing her hand against the wall, blinking furiously and praying for her eyes to hurry up and adjust to the dark.

"Oh, fantastic idea, Lumen. Let's enter an abandoned Dark Brotherhood sanctuary and not pack a single, fucking torch," she mutters as she progresses through the entryway. "And of course I never bothered to learn a magelight spell because the _last_ time I tried to cast anything I set myself on fire and I-"

"Listener," a deep voice booms, startling Lumen out of her ranting. She stumbles over her feet, screaming as she falls backwards, landing gracelessly on her bottom. Her mouth hangs open as she stares up at a ghost dressed in shrouded robes. "I apologize, my Listener. I did not mean to startle you," the spirit says, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "I am Lucien Lachance, and I have been sent here to aid you in your time of need."

"You have?" Lumen asks, standing up and dusting herself off. Grateful that the spirits emits enough light that she can see clearly. "Are you telling me that the Night Mother sent you?"

Lucien nods. "Mother could sense your distress, and she is not pleased to see her children fighting with one another. She and our Dread Father do not wish to see this jester dead, but the decision to kill him or not is yours, Listener."

"I'm not going to kill him!" Lumen flinches as her voice echoes across the stone walls of the sanctuary.

"Listener! Is that you?" Cicero's voice calls back. "Oh, I knew Astrid would leap at the chance to get rid of us both! You kill the Keeper or I kill the Listener, or perhaps she meant for her stupid wolf to end us both?"

Lumen hadn't considered that possibility, but there was no time to think on it now. "I'm not going to kill you! I just want to talk!"

Cicero's cackle reverberates through the sanctuary, only muffled when Lucien leaps in front of Lumen to dispatch a Sanctuary Guardian that had materialized to fight them. "Oh, Cicero really does want to believe you, sweet Lumen! But I know how easily swayed you are by the pretender's treacherous lips!"

"Damn it, Cicero," Lumen growls, then turns to Lucien. "I won't kill him, but I might throttle him a bit."

"Understandable," Lucien replies, moving to walk ahead of Lumen. "Follow me, Listener. There are many traps ahead, but I can safely guide you."

True to his word, Lucien leads Lumen through the sanctuary, warning her of traps and helping to fend off the Guardian Spirits. It would be easy if it weren't for Cicero's shrieking and taunting. Lucien seems immune to it, but Lumen can feel her irritation building by the minute, and it comes to a head when she finds herself facing a troll.

"You ass!" Lumen growls, rolling out of the way as a giant paw with sickle-like claws comes swiping at her. "You could have warned me about the troll!"

"What? And spoil the surprise? " Cicero purrs, his voice much closer now. "Surely the great and powerful Listener can handle an itsy-bitsy little troll?"

There's nothing 'little' about the troll, and it seems more interested in Lumen than Lucien. The ghost takes advantage of the troll's distraction and lands a few, well-placed strikes with his ethereal daggers while Lumen spends most of the time running away from the angry creature. Eventually she grows tired of running away, and she turns to face Lucien and the troll.

"Get out of the way!" she shouts, and even though Lucien seems confused by her command, he instantly obeys. Once Lumen has a clear shot, she sucks in a deep breath, trying like the Void to remain focused despite the troll closing in on her. A primal thrill surges through her as her lips form the words for the Unrelenting Force shout, raw power tearing from her throat and slamming into the troll, knocking it back against the cave wall. Lumen rushes forward, her dagger arcing through the air and plunging deep into the creature's skull, its last breath leaving it in a whimper.

"For someone called the 'Listener', you do an awful lot of shouting..." Cicero says, still nowhere to be seen.

The petulant tone in his voice is almost enough to make her laugh, but she is too exhausted for laughter right now. After yanking her blade from the troll's skull, she and Lucien leave the foul smelling cave behind. Lumen grits her teeth, her throat tight with anger as she draws closer to a closed door, firelight gleaming out from the crack beneath it, and Cicero's maniacal giggling coming from behind it.

Lumen turns to the ghost that follows close behind her. "I think I can handle Cicero on my own. Do me a favor and keep an eye on Arnbjorn. Let me know when he begins to wake."

"As you wish, my Listener," Lucien intones, then vanishes from sight.

Lumen stares at the place where the ghost once stood, then turns back to the door when she hears Cicero say, "And now we have come to the end of our play. The grande finale!" She heaves a sigh as pushes the door open, tired, angry, and not knowing what will happen next.

* * *

Cicero smiles when Lumen steps through the door, relieved that she made it past the traps and the troll, even if that does mean he might have to kill the lovely Listener himself. What pleases him most is the concerned look on her face when she notices him laying on the floor, feigning an injury. "Cicero was afraid his sweet Lumen wouldn't make it this far." his words are followed by a dry cough. "Cicero is pleased that you did."

The concern fades from her features, and in its place is a fierce scowl. "You _dick_!" she snaps, and Cicero laughs at the insult. "What in the Void were you thinking? Traps? _Really_?" her voice rises in pitch as she stomps across the room. "And don't even get me started on the fucking troll!" she shrieks, kicking him square in the shin.

"Ow!" he shouts, just barely managing to avoid another kick. Cicero crawls away from her, then finally jumps to his feet, all pretense of injury gone. "That was a cheap shot!"

Lumen's fingers curl around the hilt of her daedric blade, but she doesn't draw it. "You tried to kill me!"

Cicero can hear the hurt in her voice, and he can't help but feel a small, twinge of guilt at knowing he's the cause of it. "Cicero knows better than to make assumptions about what you might do," he says, holding her gaze. "I had to protect myself."

"You have nothing to fear from me," she says, her arms dropping to her sides. "You could've just talked to me, you know."

A rough, bitter laugh escapes him. "I don't fear you, but I know what you are, and I know you thirst for the pretender's approval. That is a dangerous combination for poor Cicero."

"To the Void with her approval if it means I have to kill you to get it!" Lumen snaps, her voice breaking and fading into something softer. "The thought of you dead is- _upsetting_."

Cicero opens his mouth to respond, but is struck silent by the sight of a blush creeping across Lumen's cheeks. She looks away, clearing her throat and shifting uncomfortably as he stares at her. His heart jumps at the mere notion that Lumen prefers him alive, and that she's chosen him over Astrid. A small victory, perhaps, but a victory nonetheless. He thought she just enjoyed his company, and he never thought it went further than that. However, the sight of Lumen blushing like a young maiden has him wondering how deep her feelings go.

The fact that anyone cares about him has Cicero throwing caution to the wind, and he slowly approaches Lumen. "Oh, Lumen! Does this mean you care for poor Cicero?" he asks, and when she doesn't step away or grab her blade he wraps his arms around her.

"Wh-what are you- no! No hugging!" she says, her body going stiff when he pulls her close.

"Cicero never wanted to presume that you wanted him around for any other reason than to satisfy your carnal urges. Not that humble Cicero minds tending to your needs, Listener. In fact, it's been rather enjoyable," his voice trails off in a giggle. "But if sweet Lumen truly cares for Cicero, that would make him very happy indeed."

"I- I, um-" Lumen squirms in his arms, and Cicero is thrilled when he feels her heart beat faster, and her blush finally coloring the tips of her ears. "I am- _fond_ of you, I guess," she says, refusing to look at him. Choosing to stare at the shackles on the wall instead.

"Really?" Cicero squeaks, hugging her tighter and pressing his face against the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent; leather and sweat, and the smell of trees after a spring rain. Warmth blooms in his chest when Lumen slowly wraps her arms around him, her body relaxing against his. "Cicero is fond of you as well," he says softly, looking up at her, even though she's still looking away. "And I thank you for slaying the troll. That nasty beast was here before I ever was, and it was never particularly friendly."

Lumen gives a tired laugh at that. "Slaying foul beasts is what I do best."

"Speaking of beasts, please tell me you killed the sheepdog, and tell me in great detail. Cicero wants to imagine you disemboweling the Harlot's pet."

"He's alive, just unconscious."

"Oh well," Cicero sighs, resting his head against her shoulder, happy that Lumen hasn't pulled away from him yet. "Cicero will just picture you beating him over the head with a rock."

"Cicero," she says, half-laughing and finally looking down at him. "I didn't injure him. I- well, I gave him your sleeping potions. I wasn't sure how much to give a big guy like Arnbjorn, so I gave him all three."

A short pause, and then Cicero collapses into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. His legs fold beneath him, and though he tries to hold onto Lumen for stability, his hands slide down her form as he crumples to the floor. Wrapping his arms around himself, he continues to laugh. Loud and sharp, and just on the edge of hysteria. "Oh, Sithis," he gasps, wiping his eyes and desperately trying to control himself. "The sheepdog will be asleep for _days_."

Lumen kneels down next to him, her eyes wide with concern. "Are you okay?"

"No," he says, feeling a little delirious from exhaustion. Cicero is fairly certain that if he wasn't laughing; he'd be crying. "Oh, no, no, no. Cicero is as far from 'okay' as he can possibly get."

"Did you need those potions? There's an alchemist in town, I can probably get you something to help you sleep."

Cicero shakes his head. "That is not necessary. Babette noticed I was often awake at night and gave them to me, but I never took them. Cicero needs to be alert to protect Mother but- Oh, no. _Mother_ … Poor, poor, Mother. Left all alone without Cicero to care for her."

Lumen sighs. "Perhaps you should've thought about that before you tried to gut Astrid."

"She said horrible things about Mother!" he snaps. "What's a fool to do when his mother is slandered and mocked?"

"Oh, I don't know. You could try controlling your temper?"

Cicero snorts. "That is rich coming from _you_ ," he grumbles, severe fatigue making him more irritable than he means to be. The near-constant rush of adrenaline is fading, and in its place Cicero can feel nothing but pain. His head aches from being awake for too long, and his muscles throb in agony as a result of his flight from Falkreath.

"What are we going to do? You can't go back to Falkreath, and you can't stay here. Astrid sent me to kill you, and you know as well as I do that she'll come here to make sure I did."

Cicero looks up at Lumen. "Does the pretender know the passphrase?"

Lumen shrugs. "She claimed not to."

"Well if she does not already know it, she will find a way to wheedle it out of you eventually," Cicero says, grinning at Lumen's resulting frown. "No insult intended, sweet Lumen. But if would seem very suspicious if you refused to tell her."

"Where will you go?" she asks softly. "Skyrim will be dangerous for you with the Dark Brotherhood dogging your steps."

"Cicero will figure that out later," he says, standing up and offering Lumen his hand, helping her to her feet when she finally slips her hand in his. "Cicero is going to sleep before he makes any decisions. There are beds here. A little dusty, but they are cleaner than the floor."

"Sleep sounds marvelous," she says, following Cicero away from the old torture chamber and to a bedroom furnished with two small beds. Three, actually. But the other bed is broken and unusable for anything other than kindling.

Cicero neatly folds his cap and places it on the broken nightstand, and after removing his gloves and boots he crawls onto the bed. It's not comfortable by any means, the frame is rickety and the blankets are threadbare, but it's better than cold, hard stone. Cicero glances at Lumen, who's tossed her pack onto the other bed, and is busy removing her armor, which is a rather tedious process considering all the belts and snaps. Suppressing a sigh, he rolls to face the wall. The Listener isn't the most affectionate woman he's ever met, but that knowledge did not keep him from hoping that she might want to share his bed. Just when disappointment threatens to consume Cicero, the bed dips behind him, and Lumen presses her body close to his, her arm curling tightly around him.

"Cicero did not think you were capable of such kindness," he says, smiling at her silent laugh; a gentle puff of breath against his neck.

Lumen leans closer, whispering in his ear. "Tell anyone and I'll cut your balls off and feed them to Lis, got it?"

"Got it," he laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lumen is so sweet, isn't she? ;) I ended this one on a light note, because things are about to get a little stressful for our gruesome twosome...
> 
> As always, thanks so much for the reviews, kudos, and faves! It makes me happy to know you all enjoy my silly story. :D And I want to thank Heiwako for her constant support and help with my grammar booboo's. She's the best. :)


	11. Predator and Prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This chapter (and this fic in general) contains many things which I do not approve of in real life. But since this chapter is fairly depraved, I felt it was necessary to say so. Please heed the warnings for possible triggers/squicks.
> 
> Warnings for: Cicero being sleazy, rough/hate sex, sex while under the influence, dubious consent that borders on non-consent, emotional manipulation, forced orgasm, mentions of strangulation, and strong language because Lumen and Arnbjorn are a couple of pottymouths.

Lumen wakes after a few hours of sleep, still curled up against Cicero's back. Despite the bed needing new blankets and fresh hay for the mattress, she is comfortable and warm. The gentle cadence of Cicero's breathing is almost enough to lull her back to sleep, yet she is all too aware of everything she must face when she leaves this sanctuary. Try as she might, she can't fall back to sleep with so much hanging over her head. Lumen rolls onto her back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling.

The loss of heat at his back prompts Cicero to roll over, and he drapes an arm and a leg across Lumen, sighing happily as he pillows his head against her breasts. "Sweet Lumen is much softer than the bed," he murmurs sleepily. "Should have thought of this sooner, then maybe poor Cicero wouldn't have a crick in his neck."

She laughs softly and brushes his sleep-tousled hair away from his face. "It's time to get up. I need to get back to Falkreath and- and I don't know... I guess I need to convince Astrid that you're dead."

"Or you could kill the pretender and her slobbering mutt and be done with it," Cicero says, giggling at the thought and squeezing Lumen tighter.

"Oh, yeah. _Sure_. And what about the rest of them? They're loyal to Astrid and the both of us together couldn't take on the entire Brotherhood alone," Lumen says, feeling utterly defeated. "So what will you do? Return to Cyrodiil? The weather is certainly more favorable there..." Lumen hates the thought of never seeing him again, but she hates the thought of him being torn apart by Arnbjorn even more.

"The Listener is in Skyrim and the Night Mother is in Skyrim," he says slowly and patiently, as if he were speaking to a small child. "So Cicero is staying in Skyrim."

"But-"

"There is no need to worry about Cicero," he says, pulling away from her just enough to look her in the eyes. "He is not the one walking into a pit of vipers."

"You're always so dramatic," Lumen grumbles. "But if it'll make you feel better I promise to sleep with one eye open."

Cicero looms over her, his hair falling down around his face and brushing Lumen's cheeks. "Do not treat this so lightly," he says, deadly serious and without an ounce of his usual humor. "Cicero thinks the pretender upset him on purpose. She said what she said, knowing Cicero was well within earshot, and knowing Cicero would attack."

"You think Astrid set you up?"

He nods. "That is Cicero's theory, yes."

"Do you think anyone else was in on it?" she asks, biting her lip. "Arnbjorn, probably?"

"No," he says after a moment's hesitation. "His anger was too genuine, and Cicero doubts the sheepdog is that great of an actor."

Lumen groans in frustration. "Speaking of Arnbjorn, even if I do manage to convince Astrid that I've killed you, I don't think he'll believe me. He's very perceptive. More so than I ever gave him credit for."

"And you are determined to let him live? It would be easy to kill him now and tell the pretender he bled to death."

"Look, I understand why you felt the need to attack Astrid, even though I will admit I'm rather surprised that you were so easily played by her." Lumen smirks at Cicero's frown. "Oh, don't be such a baby. You walked right into her trap."

"Cicero is wondering where Lumen is going with this," he mutters irritably.

"Well, like I said, attacking Astrid was understandable. She violated a tenet, after all," Lumen says, feeling relieved when the frown eases from Cicero's face. "But Arnbjorn hasn't, and that is why I am hesitant to kill him. I don't think Mother would approve."

"That is true," Cicero says, though the admission seems to pain him. "He has never shown any reverence for the Night Mother, but he has never been blatantly disrespectful like the pretender. So if killing him is not an option, Cicero suggests you get the sheepdog under your control."

She laughs at that. "Right, and how am I supposed to do that exactly?"

A sly smile appears on Cicero's lips. "Guilt is a powerful motivator."

"I cannot think of a single thing Arnbjorn would ever feel guilty about."

"Cicero can."

"That's not vague at all," Lumen sniffs, then heaves a sigh when she realizes Cicero isn't going to speak until she comes up with a suitable answer. "Maybe he'd feel guilty if he betrayed Astrid somehow, but I don't think that's likely to happen."

"More likely than you think," Cicero purrs, leaning closer to her. "You were often gone on contracts, but Cicero was home, and Cicero observed many interesting things while he was there. One of which is the fact that there is no intimacy between the pretender and her pet."

"He does seem rather frustrated, but I don't see what that has to do with me."

"Another thing Cicero noticed is how the sheepdog's gaze would follow the movements of a certain elf when she returned home," he pauses for a moment, then says, "specifically the movements of her posterior."

Lumen snorts. "Are you telling me he was looking at my ass?"

"On more than one occasion."

"How did you even notice something like that?"

"Cicero was looking too."

Lumen laughs at Cicero's admission, and when her laughter has quieted she says, "So he was looking at me. That doesn't mean anything. People look at other people all the time."

"It was more than just looking," Cicero grins, his voice dropping a little lower. "Cicero knows lust when he sees it, just as he could see the hunger in your eyes before you killed that old priest."

"Are you suggesting I _seduce_ him?" Lumen asks, unable to believe it.

"Oh, Cicero would never want the Listener to do anything she isn't comfortable with," he says a little too innocently. "But that is not a bad idea."

"It'll never work."

"You don't know that for certain. It's clear the sheepdog thinks you are attractive, and perhaps that is the one and only thing he and Cicero will ever agree on," Cicero says, and Lumen's cheeks burn at his words. "Not to mention, his inhibitions will be lowered as a result of all those sleeping potions you gave him. He will be very open to suggestion."

"I need to think about this," she says, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Cicero's ear, though it does little good at this angle. His soft hair seems determined to slip forward and tickle her face.

Cicero smiles at her failed efforts, and rather than pull away, he leans closer and kisses her. His lips are soft and warm, and her mouth opens at his insistence, allowing Cicero to deepen the kiss. The first taste of his mouth chases the chill of the sanctuary away, and the first touch of his tongue against hers sends a wave of heat through her body.

Cicero pulls away, and it takes Lumen a moment to find her voice. "What was that for?" she asks breathlessly.

"An apology," he says, his lips quirking into a crooked smile. "Cicero has obviously upset you with this idea."

"I'm not upset," she says, feeling flustered now that his kiss has left her with the pangs of desire, and she wonders if that's all a part of his plan. Plant an idea, get her worked up, and then leave her with a not-quite-defenseless victim. That thought annoys her, and she glares at Cicero. "I don't appreciate being manipulated, you know."

"Cicero is not manipulating you," he says, offended. "Cicero had an idea and he shared it, that is all."

"No? You propose this crazy idea to me- and then- and then you kiss me like _that_ ," she gasps, annoyed and aroused and uncertain how to deal with the situation at hand. "I need to think about this and form a plan, so if you think you can get me to agree quickly just because you made me wet-"

"Wait, what?" Cicero chirps, grinning madly. "From a mere kiss?"

"It was a good kiss," Lumen murmurs, glancing away from him and blushing furiously.

Cicero's hand splays across her stomach, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin, sleeveless tunic she wears beneath her armor. "You'll forgive Cicero for doubting you, but he wants to see for himself," he says, and when Lumen doesn't refuse, he moves his hand a little lower, sliding beneath the hem of her leggings, his fingers delving between her legs. "Oh dear, Cicero doesn't believe this is because of him. Cicero thinks you like the idea of having a big, strong Nord at your mercy."

Lumen whimpers when he starts to move his fingers against her. "I didn't say I was against the idea, I just don't think Arnbjorn will go for it."

"He might resist at first," Cicero muses, sliding one, then two fingers inside. "But that's half the fun, isn't it?"

"Oh gods, yes." Lumen gasps, moving her hips against his hand.

"He will give in eventually." Cicero rubs his palm against her sensitive node as his fingers probe deeper inside. "Cicero doubts he will be able to resist for very long."

"Stop talking," Lumen says, one hand sliding into Cicero's trousers to wrap around his erection, the other guiding his mouth to hers.

Cicero turns away from the kiss. "What's the matter, Lumen? Do you not find him attractive?" he purrs in her ear, chuckling when she groans in frustration from being denied what she wants.

"He's not hideously deformed or anything, he's just not my type."

"And what is your type?" Cicero asks, then flicks his tongue along the edge of her sensitive ear.

"Loud mouth Imperials, apparently," Lumen says. A small whine escaping her as Cicero withdraws his fingers from between her legs, then tugs her hand out of his trousers. "What are you doing?"

Cicero adjusts himself and quickly ties the laces to his trousers. "Well, if you are going to seduce the wolf, it would be better if you were eager," he says, wisely moving out of Lumen's reach.

Lumen sits up, watching in disbelief as Cicero smooths his hair down and pulls his cap on, humming merrily as if nothing is amiss. The heat of her arousal gradually twisting into the slow burn of anger as the jester glances her way, a sly smile upon his lips. "I didn't agree to seduce anyone, and you really are fucking crazy if you think this is going to work at all!" Lumen shouts, punching the hay mattress and sending a plume of dust into the air.

"Crazy? _Cicero_? Ha! Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, Listener," Cicero says, smiling wider and showing more teeth. "And if you are so certain that the plan will fail, Cicero suggests you think of something else." His smile never falters, but his voice takes on a stern edge that Lumen finds impossible to ignore.

Lumen pushes away from the bed, quietly sulking as she tugs her armor on and only speaking again when Cicero approaches her to help her with the buckles. "It's almost as if you want me to do this, and I have to wonder why," Lumen mutters, testy from Cicero toying with her and leaving her wanting more.

"Cicero only wants you to survive," he says simply, giving her belt a final tug. "The choice is yours, sweet Lumen, and if you come up with another way to bring the dog to heel, then Cicero thinks you should do so," he pauses, and then says, "and for what it's worth, Cicero would not mind witnessing the sheepdog's debasement."

Lumen doesn't respond, still a little uncertain of the idea, but not entirely against it either. It wouldn't be the first time she used sex as a weapon, and it probably won't be the last. Still, using it to blackmail a dark brother feels a little strange.

It almost feels _wrong_.

* * *

Lumen exits Dawnstar sanctuary with Cicero trailing behind her, chattering on about this and that while she tries to ignore him. She's still irritated with him for how he behaved earlier, and her irritation only grows when he stops talking and bursts into a fit of maniacal laughter.

"What's so damn funny?" she demands, whirling around to glare at him.

Cicero leans against the black door for support, holding his sides as he struggles to breathe amidst gales of laughter. "Everything-" he gasps, then motions toward a still-unconscious Arnbjorn, who is being watched over by a daedric horse and a ghost. A small pod of horkers have come to rest on the beach nearby, and a few are sniffing the air and curiously watching the group of assassins. "Everything about _that_ is funny."

Lumen pinches the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt to ward off an impending headache. It _would_ be funny if she weren't so determined to be angry with Cicero. _"I will not kill the Keeper, I will not kill the Keeper…"_

The spirit glides toward her, sparing a curious glance at Cicero before turning his attention to Lumen. "Listener, I am afraid our brother is not doing so well. He needs a healer."

"Lumen!" Cicero pushes away from the black door and comes to stand beside her. "Are you going to introduce Cicero to your friend?" he asks, staring curiously at the ghost.

"Can't you just introduce yourself?" Lumen asks, placing her hands on her hips. "You talk incessantly and yet you can't say 'Hi, I'm Cicero. What's your name?'" she heaves a sigh at the sullen look on his face and finally gives in. " _Fine_. Cicero this is Lucien Lachance. Lucien, this is-"

"Cicero!" he interrupts, dropping into a graceful bow as he takes over his introductions. "the Fool of Hearts, the Keeper of the Night Mother, and the reason our lovely Listener is in such a sour mood!"

"Well, at least the little shit can admit it," Lumen mutters to no one in particular, but loud enough to be overheard.

Cicero ignores her, his focus resting solely on Lucien. "Cicero has read stories about you, brother! Your unwavering service to the Night Mother, to the Dark Brotherhood, and of your grisly death. It is truly an honor to meet you."

"I'd say the honor is mine, Keeper," the ghost purrs. "Never has our dear mother had a Keeper as capable and dedicated as you."

Lumen smiles at the way Cicero blushes at Lucien's words, and she steps away from the two to give them a chance to talk. She approaches Arnbjorn, who looks unusually pale. His breathing is too shallow for her liking, and on closer inspection she notices that the wound along his side has begun to bleed again. She looks back to where Cicero is babbling away at a rather bemused spirit. "I hate to interrupt," Lumen says loudly, and the pair turn to look at her, "but Arnbjorn really needs some help."

Cicero reluctantly tears himself away from his conversation with Lucien to help Lumen with Arnbjorn. It's slow going, but they manage to haul Arnbjorn to the Windpeak inn where Cicero convinces a priest of Mara to heal him in exchange for helping the priest with a problem at a nearby ruin; Nightcaller Temple. Lumen pays little attention to their conversation until she hears the priest mention something about a Daedric Lord who is causing nightmares for the people of Dawnstar. It's odd, her dreams had been rather normal when she slept at the sanctuary, and Cicero made no mention of any nightmares. Perhaps a Dark Brotherhood sanctuary is beyond the Daedra's reach, or she knows better than to harass the children of Sithis.

Arnbjorn has been sleeping peacefully enough, only murmuring softly when Lumen and Erandur strip the top half of his armor off. The healing potion she'd given him for the cut had helped a little, but the re-opened wound is much worse than Lumen initially thought. However, the priest is able to heal Arnbjorn, and all that's left to do is to wait for the sleeping potions to wear off.

After Erandur and Cicero leave, Lumen settles into a chair in the corner of the room with a bottle of wine in hand. A bottle that she is doing her best to consume as quickly as she can, desperate to slow her thoughts and ease her worries. Her mind is flitting from one uncomfortable thought to the next; from what Rulindil told her during his 'interrogation' and the fact that she still hasn't told Cicero about any of it, then to Astrid and the rest of her dysfunctional family. Even Delphine and dragons enter her thoughts. She misses the days when all she had to worry about was what to eat, where to sleep, and who to kill. It had been a simpler time. But life, as it turns out, has a way of getting very complicated very quickly.

It doesn't help that Cicero seems content to complicate things more than necessary, and Lumen is still annoyed with him for making her run a gauntlet in the Dawnstar sanctuary, and then for toying with her when they woke. Her sweet, subordinate Keeper has been acting rather insubordinate as of late, and when she is able, she fully intends to give him the attitude adjustment that he so desperately needs.

Lumen, now pleasantly tipsy, weaves across the room and sits on the edge of the small bed where Arnbjorn still sleeps. Her eyes move across his form, taking in every scar, and unabashedly studying the way his muscles move as his chest rises and falls. He isn't bad looking for a human, and he'd look about ten years younger if he didn't have the beard. Lumen curiously traces a long scar with her fingertip, then another, before moving to his rigid abdominal muscles. Her fingers skim along the divot of flesh that separates the muscles, only stopping when she reaches the hem of his pants.

 _"I may as well see what I might be working with,"_ Lumen silently reasons, as she begins to untie the laces.

Arnbjorn's hand clamps around her wrist, stilling her busy fingers. "Tidbit," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep, "mind telling me what the fuck you think you're doing?"

"Uh-" Lumen tries to pull away, but his grip on her wrist tightens. "Getting caught, apparently," she says, seeing no point in even trying to lie about why she was unlacing his pants. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough." He releases his hold on her wrist and pushes himself into a sitting position. Running his hands through his messy, white hair, he looks around the room then finally back to Lumen. "Tell me what happened."

Grateful that he's chosen to ignore her earlier indiscretion, Lumen says, "Cicero's blade was poisoned." A lie, obviously. But it wouldn't do to admit that she drugged him. "After I dealt with Cicero I dragged your worthless hide uphill, in the snow, to the inn. I found a healer to see to you, and I've been sitting here for hours waiting for you to finally wake."

"Why?" he asks.

"What do you mean 'why'? I was following Astrid's orders. One of which was to kill Cicero, and the other was to take care of you if you were injured."

"You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" Arnbjorn moves, placing his feet on the floor and gingerly standing up, only wavering slightly. "I'm well aware that you've been fucking the clown, but for the life of me, I can't understand _why_."

"It was fun," she says simply. "Where are you going?"

Arnbjorn ignores her question, shuffling over to the dresser where the innkeeper left a fresh basin of water. "I understand the need to scratch an itch, but the man's insane."

"His cock isn't," Lumen says, and Arnbjorn actually barks a laugh at that before splashing his face with the cold water. Then, sounding as forlorn as she can, Lumen adds, "or _wasn't_ , I should say..."

Arnbjorn wets a cloth, dragging it across his chest and stomach, washing away dirt and dried blood. "So you really did it?" he asks, toweling off and wandering back to the bed, though he doesn't sit down. Instead, he stands in front of Lumen, looking down at her as he speaks. "The clown is dead?"

Lumen nods, and Arnbjorn leans toward her, prompting her to lean back. His silver eyes meet hers, and she's not really sure what he's doing until she sees his nostrils flare. She always wondered if some of those wolf-like traits might still linger while he's in his human form, and apparently a superior sense of smell is one of them. "Are you _sniffing_ me?" she asks, not bothering to hide her unease.

"I don't smell the clown on you," he growls in an accusing tone.

"I bathed," Lumen says, still holding his gaze. She notices his eyes are more dilated than usual, and she suspects it's a side-effect from the potions which are still lingering in his system.

Arnbjorn stares at her for a moment longer before seemingly accepting her answer and sitting down on the bed again. He leans against the headboard and rolls his head back to rest against the wall. "I guess I owe you one, morsel," he says, closing his eyes. "Thanks for coming to find me, and for, you know- not leaving me to die."

Lumen blinks, surprised at his gratitude. "You're welcome."

"Sorry you had to kill your boytoy," he says suddenly, "but you'll forgive me if I can't find it in my heart to mourn him."

Lumen is stunned into silence at that. _He believes her_ , and she supposes there's no need to seduce him now, except for the fact that she _wants_ to. It's a superbly wicked way to get back at Astrid for insulting the Night Mother and for upsetting her poor jester.

"Don't worry," Arnbjorn's voice cuts through Lumen's thoughts. "I won't tell my lovely wife what you were doing when I woke up," he says, his eyes still closed and a smirk on his lips.

Lumen's mouth curls into a wicked grin at that. _"All right, Astrid. You fuck with me and mine... and I'll fuck your husband."_ This is certainly not a decent thing to do, but Lumen has never been a decent person. And as she grabs Arnbjorn's wrist to guide his warm, forge-calloused hand inside her shirt, she decides decency is overrated anyway.

Arnbjorn's eyes snap open, and he tries to pull his hand out of Lumen's grip, but she tightens her fingers around his wrist to a painful degree. "How many times have you tried to touch your 'lovely wife' like this, only to have her refuse you?" she asks, guiding his hand over the swell of her breast. "Don't think that I haven't noticed a lack of intimacy between you two."

"It's your fault," he snaps. "She's been obsessed with this Emperor contract ever since you told her about it! Do you have any idea what you've done to her? The fact that you knew about a contract before she did has nearly driven her insane," Arnbjorn says, as he finally manages to yank his hand away from Lumen.

Lumen shrugs. "I expect I'll know about even more since the Night Mother talks to me and not her."

"Do you really expect me to believe that old corpse talks to you?" Arnbjorn snarls, but his breath hitches when Lumen pulls her tunic over her head, then removes her trousers, leaving her in nothing more than her smalls and breast-band. "For the love of- Lumen, put your clothes back on!"

Lumen ignores his demand, and she even ignores the fact that he used her name rather than 'tidbit' or 'morsel'. Instead, she straddles his hips and grabs him by his beard, yanking hard. "You're a man that shifts into a werewolf, and you find it so hard to believe that the Night Mother spoke to me?" she asks, yanking his beard again. "You saw me take the soul of a dragon, and yet the spirit of a long-dead Dunmer speaking to me is so unbelievable? Why?" Despite her questions, she gives him no time to answer as she looms over him. "Is it because I'm the one she spoke to and not Astrid? I bet if Astrid claimed to be the Listener you'd believe her in a heartbeat."

"Of course I'd believe her," Arnbjorn says, determined to keep his eyes on Lumen's face and not allowing them to roam elsewhere, "because it would make sense! Astrid deserves to be the Listener, not you!"

"Oh, does she now?" Lumen asks, her hips shifting and moving against his as her desire builds. "Well believe this, Arnbjorn," she growls, her hair falling down around her face and curtaining Arnbjorn's, so that she is all he can see. "While you were bleeding out, your wife was safe and warm at home. _I'm_ the one who saved you, and _I'm_ the one who killed Cicero because Astrid knew I would succeed and she would not."

Arnbjorn remains quiet, his eyes focused on Lumen as she tries to appeal to his inner wolf by affirming her superiority over Astrid. It seems to be working, if his hands traveling up her thighs are anything to judge by. "She couldn't be arsed to leave the sanctuary to look for you, but I did, and you're alive now because of _me_."

Arnbjorn takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "I love my wife, I can't do this."

"Silly puppy," Lumen says, quite pleased with herself when she feels Arnbjorn's cock hardening beneath her. "I don't want you to love me, I just want you to fuck me."

Distantly, Lumen realizes that this is exactly how Malrian used to handle her; the lies, the manipulation, the illusion of intimacy even though there is no affection between them. This is nothing more than a fight for dominance and an attempt to assert control. She often finds herself treating others in the same way he treated her, but it does not surprise her. It is all she knows, after all. She knows how to manipulate, to dominate, and to abuse. Such acts are as familiar to her as the shape of her name or the sound of her voice.

Lumen leans down to kiss him, even though she is hesitant to do so. Kissing is something lovers do and there is no love here. She doesn't know if she can call Cicero her 'lover', that word seems too soft and too simple to name what's between them, but it's his lips that she desires. They are smooth and soft, whereas Arnbjorn's are rough, weather-beaten, and unresponsive. Lumen nips at his lower lip in frustration, and that does prompt him to respond. He moves against her, his mouth opening to accept her kisses that are more teeth and tongue than lips. His rough hands travel up her sides and around her back to undo the clasps of her breast band.

She wiggles out of her smallclothes with his help, and she pulls away from him long enough to help him out of his leather trousers. Lumen runs her fingertips along his erection, admiring the veins along his thick shaft before pouncing him and wrapping her hands around his throat. His Adam's apple bobs nervously between her two intrusive thumbs, his eyes are wide and fearful, urging her onward and adding to her pleasure.

As much as Lumen enjoys the sight of flowing blood, strangulation is her favorite technique. There is so much power in choking the life out of someone; lying on top of them so they can't move, pinning down their flailing arms with her elbows, and then leaning all her weight upon her thumbs at their throat. She recalls the first time she'd strangled someone; an Altmer, of course. Lumen hadn't known the woman, only that she was some distant cousin of one of Malrian's guards, and that she was visiting from Alinor. But she'd been so beautiful, her neck so slender, and her teeth so white when her full lips had pulled back in a scream that Lumen had quickly silenced. She relaxes her grip on Arnbjorn's neck, distracted by the memory of the lovely Altmer writhing in her clutches.

Lumen is pulled from her reverie when she feels Arnbjorn's blunt nails digging into her plump arse, his hips snapping upwards, driving his thick cock inside her without so much as a warning. She shrieks at the sudden intrusion and from the pain blossoming between her legs from being entered at such an awkward angle. As a result, she presses her thumbs against his throat more firmly, causing his body to thrash beneath hers.

"That was very rude, pup," she growls, barely able to form the words through her clenched teeth. Lumen calms herself and lightens the pressure against his throat. Since she is intimately familiar with how much stress a trachea can take, she knows exactly how hard to press in order to kill Arnbjorn or just frighten him, and she has no desire to kill him yet.

Unable to speak, he responds with a low growl that reverberates through his chest, his lip curling up to reveal teeth that are much sharper than those of a normal human. Arnbjorn is the first werewolf Lumen has encountered, and it's becoming obvious that there is more wolf in him than man. He often said so himself, and Lumen always assumed it was nothing more than bravado, but now she's beginning to think there's more truth to his words than she initially thought. But she doesn't care what he is as long as Cicero's potions and her own special brand of manipulation keep Arnbjorn's inner wolf tamed.

Arnbjorn gasps for air when Lumen finally releases her hold on his neck. Her left hand presses hard against his shoulder for leverage, while the other teases that sensitive pip of flesh between her legs. Her orgasm is slow-building; exhaustion and copious amounts of wine both working together to dull her sensitivity. Lumen groans softly when she leans forward and tilts her hips so that he can enter her at a more satisfying angle, his cock filling and stretching her, each stroke chasing away the pain of his clumsy entrance.

"Enjoying yourself?" Arnbjorn grits out, and Lumen clamps her free hand over his mouth in response.

"Shut up," she gasps, desperately trying to focus on her own pleasure and nothing else. Arnbjorn responds by raking his nails down her back and sides. As blunt as they are, the scrape of nails across her flesh still stings. The pain mixes with the steadily building heat between her legs, and Lumen cries out as her climax finally hits. Her body shivers and her hips instinctively move against Arnbjorn as a flood of pleasure spills over her.

Sensing an opportunity, Arnbjorn grabs her by the hip, his other hand tangling in her hair and tugging hard as he flips Lumen onto her back. "What the fuck-" Lumen gasps as the room spins around her. "What are you doing?"

"Turnabout is fair play," Arnbjorn's hands squeeze her wrists painfully as he pins her arms above her head. He repositions himself between her legs, entering her with one smooth stroke.

"Get off of me!" Lumen demands, her voice shaking. Talking is rather difficult with Arnbjorn's hips snapping against the back of her thighs, his cock driving inside of her as he ruts her hard and fast.

"Not a chance," he says breathlessly.

Everything is spiraling wildly out of her control, and she tries to swallow her panic as Arnbjorn gains the upper hand. Only now does she realize how massive he is compared to her; broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, and imbued with the supernatural strength of a werewolf. He'd been fairly complacent earlier and unable to fight off Lumen's advances, but as her eyes meet his she notices his pupils have now fixated, a sure sign that Cicero's potions are starting to wear off.

_Shit._

"Hurry up and finish, you sweaty boor," she snaps. Despite her panic, she can't help but feel annoyed that a second orgasm isn't likely to happen. Not with Arnbjorn, anyway. And Lumen longs to be elsewhere, with a jester who can play her body much like a bard plays a lute; touching and stroking with his fingers until she makes the exact sounds he wants to hear.

Arnbjorn stills for a moment, and he narrows his eyes in a calculating glare. He releases his hold on her wrists, one hand gripping her by the hair to keep her subdued, while his other travels down her torso. His thrusts begin anew as his calloused fingers circle around her clit. Lumen isn't certain why he even bothers. The man hates her, after all. Perhaps it's a mild case of insanity? Male pride? Or some 'honorable Nord' thing?

"Stop," she gasps. "That's not necessary, just _finish_ already." It's one thing for Lumen to get herself off while riding Arnbjorn, but it's another matter entirely for him to lead her to climax all on his own.

"I don't understand you," Arnbjorn says, and to Lumen's immense surprise, he actually sounds insulted. "You wanted this. You wanted _me_. But you don't want me to make sure you enjoy yourself? Why?"

"I got what I was after," Lumen says, sneering at him. "I require nothing more. So just _stop_ -" her voice trails off in a gasp when Arnbjorn's fingers begin to move at just the right speed, sending tiny currents of pleasure racing up her spine.

"No," he snaps. "I'm not going to stop, you insufferable bitch."

Lumen thrashes beneath him, though there is little she can do while trapped beneath his considerable bulk. She struggles against her own body, not wishing to give Arnbjorn the satisfaction of getting her off, and angry that her choice has been taken away from her. Lumen can feel her climax growing closer, and she squeezes her eyes shut, not wishing to see him when it happens. She feels stupid. As if she is just a foolish girl who set out to trap a wolf, only to be trapped herself.

Lumen stifles a scream. Choking it back down as her body goes rigid beneath him, her back arching as the electric heat of intense pleasure tears through her. She can hardly breathe and hardly think. And she is only distantly aware of Arnbjorn's thrusts falling out of rhythm, his head coming to rest against the crook of her neck, and the low, feral growl that rumbles out of him as he spills himself inside her.

Arnbjorn slowly withdraws from her, and even though Lumen is weak and trembling there is still some fight left in her. She shoves at his shoulders with her hands, pushing him away. Her feet press against his abdomen, and with one firm shove Arnbjorn falls over the edge of the small bed. He lands on the floor with a loud thud, and a stream of vicious curses following shortly after.

"Get cleaned up and go home to your _wife_ , Arnbjorn," Lumen says, grabbing a cloth from the nightstand and tossing it at him.

The wolf isn't the most expressive man she's ever met, but the guilty look on his face is _beautiful_. The sight of it makes this incredibly distasteful venture worth the trouble. Guilt is an exceptionally useful emotion. It is distracting, crushing, and devastating. And so easy to wield like a weapon to those who have the aptitude for it.

A profound silence follows as Arnbjorn gathers his clothes. His brow is furrowed in a pained expression, flickering between guilt and another emotion that Lumen cannot name. Once dressed, he turns to her and says, "I think it would be best if we-"

"Didn't do this again?" she suggests, grabbing the blankets from the bed and tugging them around her shoulders to hide her naked body from the chill of the room, and from Arnbjorn's hostile gaze. "Don't speak of this? _Ever_?"

"Yes." Arnbjorn says, his voice flat. "To both."

"Are you well enough to travel?" she asks after noticing a slight sway to his usually steady gait.

"Why do you care?" he snaps, pausing at the door and not bothering to look at her. "I'll take my chances," he adds, then slips out of the room, leaving Lumen alone with her thoughts.

Lumen pushes away from the bed, allowing the blankets wrapped around her shoulders to fall to the floor. She approaches the dresser, grabbing a cloth and a bar of soap to wash herself with. The water in the basin is cold, but with each drag of the rough cloth across her skin, Lumen sloughs away the last dregs of Arnbjorn's scent and the memory of his touch. The lavender scented soap helps to calm this bizarre feeling welling up in her chest. Something similar to disgust but _worse_ somehow.

She wouldn't feel so dirty if she hadn't lost control of the wolf. The bastard wasn't supposed to gain the upper hand, or sober up, or even enjoy himself in the slightest. Nor was he supposed to concern himself with her enjoyment. What in the Void had he been thinking? And for that matter, what had _she_ been thinking?

"I should've tied him down," Lumen grumbles, then tosses the cloth into the basin, sending a small wave of soapy water over the edge of the bowl. She dresses quickly, wishing she had something or someone to take her anger out on. The furniture in the small room seems like the obvious choice, but Lumen doesn't have enough gold to cover the damages her much-needed temper tantrum would cause.

Once dressed, Lumen grabs her cloak and traveling pack and steps outside, eager to leave this frigid town behind. She's only outside for a moment when the ground beneath her feet begins to quake, and a loud, thunderous roar is followed by the shrieking of townspeople and the shouting of guards. Lumen groans loudly, begrudgingly throwing her pack to the ground and reaching for her sword.

"I hate Dawnstar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult to write (which probably makes sense when you consider the subject matter), but at the same time it was very cathartic too. I've been under a lot of stress, and as a result I think the scene between Lumen and Arnbjorn turned out to be a little more rough than I had planned. I was hesitant to post this chapter because of that. But you all aren't reading this fic for the fluffy romance are you? ;) I figure if you've stuck with me this far, then you probably aren't terribly surprised by things Lumen does (or the things Cicero suggests she do, for that matter.) Anyway, prepare yourselves for some delicious angst in future chapters.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I appreciate every fave, comment, and kudos that I get. I am sorry that I've fallen behind on replying to comments. I promise I'll try to catch up!


	12. Regrets

With his Listener and the sheepdog settled at the Windpeak inn, it's time for Cicero to make good on his promise to the Dunmer priest. As they make their way through the knee-deep snow, Cicero's mood sours with each step he takes away from the inn. The thought of the sheepdog's filthy hands touching his Listener troubles him in a way he didn't expect. It had been an amusing idea when Lumen was safe and with him, but now there's the chance that the idea may become reality and he hates it.

He's not jealous- well, maybe a _little_ jealous. It's Lumen's safety that concerns him the most. The potions will keep the dog subdued for a while, but for how long? They were crafted for Cicero, not some hulking, Nord brute.

"Lumen will be fine," he murmurs to himself. "She can breathe fire, and Lucien promised to stay near in case she calls for help."

"Did you say something?" Erandur asks, glancing over his shoulder at Cicero.

"Oh! Uh- Cicero is just talking to himself, that's all," he says, laughing nervously.

Erandur simply nods and remains quiet for the rest of the journey. Once they reach the temple, he turns to address Cicero. "I should warn you, it's possible that we may have to fight for our lives when we enter the temple."

Cicero shrugs. "That is half the fun, yes?"

Erandur glances at Cicero curiously before unlocking the door and leading him inside. "Years ago, this temple was raided by an orc war party. They were plagued by nightmares, much like the people of Dawnstar are now, and they sought revenge. Knowing that they couldn't defeat the orcs, the priests of Vaermina released what they call 'The Miasma' putting everyone in the temple to sleep," he explains, only pausing to light some incense when he passes by a small, makeshift shrine to Mara. "I'm concerned that when this place is unsealed, the Miasma will dissipate and the orcs and the priests will awaken. I doubt they will be pleased to see us."

"Cicero wonders why a humble priest of Mara knows so much about what happened to the cultists," he says, sure of the reason, but wanting to hear Erandur admit to it.

Erandur shrugs. "I've lived in the Pale for most of my life, which is a lot coming from a Dunmer, so I am familiar with the history of this place."

Cicero spares a glance at the little shrine to Mara. The sandalwood incense the priest lit now filling the air with hazy smoke and a pleasant smell, but it is still not strong enough to cover up the damp stench of mildew. "Still, Cicero finds it odd that you are the only one who knows about the cult, and exactly why the people of Dawnstar are having nightmares."

"I suppose there's no point in hiding it," Erandur says, sounding utterly defeated. "Years ago, I was a priest of Vaermina."

"Oh, yes. Cicero had that figured out ages ago," he says, pleased with himself. "But he suspects there is more to your story, humble priest."

"When the orcs attacked I was only concerned with myself, and so I fled and left my brothers and sisters to die." Erandur turns away from Cicero. "It's painful to talk about."

"Cicero understands," he says solemnly, all too familiar with the pain of losing one's adopted family. "What Cicero does not understand is why Erandur chose to switch religions. It does not seem like a good way to honor the fallen. If anything, it might be seen as an insult."

"My reasons are my own, _assassin_ ," Erandur snaps.

"Foolish Cicero? An assassin? Surely you _jest_ , humble priest."

"You are no fool, Cicero. It would not do for you to act like one now."

Feeling momentarily bested, Cicero asks, "How could you tell?"

"The black armor on your friends isn't exactly inconspicuous. Not to mention the way you can move silently, even through snow. It did not take me long to figure you out, just as it did not take you long to figure me out." Erandur turns away from Cicero, and rolls up the sleeves of his robes. "Now if you don't mind, we have a Daedric Lord to deal with. Give me a moment and I'll have this open."

Cicero watches as Erandur casts fire at what appears be nothing more than a carved stone wall. Yet as the fire from the priest's spell curls against the stone, the solid wall slowly fades away, leaving only a pale, vitreous memory in it's place. The priest motions for Cicero to follow him, and together they travel deeper into the temple.

* * *

The priest has been silent and solemn since he and Cicero cleared the temple of Orcs and cultists alike, and then finally destroying the Skull of Corruption and thus freeing Dawnstar from Vaermina's influence. Even though the temple has been cleansed, the mood is heavier and more oppressive than it was when they entered. Erandur is dutifully praying at his small shrine to Mara, and mourning the loss of his old brothers and sisters all over again.

Cicero sits on one of the many benches inside the temple, choosing one that is far away from Erandur to give him some privacy. Erandur's obvious pain is making Cicero uncomfortable. He is all too familiar with the loss that the priest has experienced, though he does not wish to think on it, nor does he care to offer any sympathy.

The door of the temple opens with a soft groan, and snow-covered Bosmer stumbles inside, with Lucien trailing along behind her. Lumen pushes the door shut with the heel of her boot, and then shakes the snow from her feet before walking toward Cicero. She looks exhausted. There are dark circles beneath her eyes and she's covered in soot.

"Lumen," Cicero says, his voice wavering nervously. "What happened to you?"

"There was a dragon," Lumen tells him as she drops her pack and fur cloak on an empty bench, before sitting down next to him. "And after the dragon I had to deal with the dead-eyed simpletons who saw me kill it."

"And what of the dog?" he asks, and Lumen waves him off, clearly not wanting to discuss it just yet. Cicero takes her silence as an invitation to tell his own story. "Well, Cicero certainly had an interesting time! He got to kill Orcs and cultists, and then he got to take a strange potion that gave him visions! Cicero even had a Daedric Lord talk inside his head! It was very exciting!"

"Wait- the priest offered you a hallucinogenic potion?"

"Oh, yes!" Cicero chirps. "Though Cicero didn't hallucinate, he relived a memory!"

Lumen drags her hand down her face, a sure sign that she's annoyed about something, but Cicero doesn't know what. She definitely has no right to be upset with him for taking questionable potions! The Bosmer is almost always drunk, after all.

"So, what did Vaermina say to you?" she asks.

"She tried to convince poor Cicero to kill the kind priest and offered her staff as a reward. But Cicero was not interested in the ugly, clunky thing. Cicero likes daggers, he does not want some tacky staff that weighs more than he does. Besides, if Cicero cannot hear Mother's voice, he would prefer to hear no voices at all."

Lumen nods. "I can't fault you for that."

"But enough about Cicero," he says, pulling a cloth from one of the many pockets lining his belt, and he starts to wipe the soot from Lumen's face. "Did things go well with the sheepdog?"

"I think so," Lumen says, frowning when Cicero starts to clean her face, but she does not pull away. "He left with his tail tucked between his legs."

"Good," he says, unable to shake the feeling that Lumen is holding back. Cicero tucks the cloth back into a pouch when he's wiped all the dirt away, and he looks up at Lumen's now clean face. "He wasn't too much of a brute, was he?"

"No more than I expected," Lumen says with a shrug. "It's not important. What matters is that it's done."

Not exactly an acceptable answer, but it's likely the only answer he's going to get. Still, if he finds out that the dog was cruel to his Listener, Cicero will gleefully eviscerate the foul beast. "If you say so," he chirps, trying to cover up his concern. "So when are you heading back to Falkreath?"

"Soon. I can't stand to remain in this frigid, little town for another day." Lumen falls quiet, then she pulls Cicero in for a hug and presses a kiss to his temple. "Lucien is going to stay with you," she says quietly.

"But-"

"No," she places her finger against his lips to silence him. "Don't argue."

Cicero jerks away and says, "Cicero is not arguing-"

"Has that word changed its meaning since I last checked?"

He growls in frustration. "Sweet Lumen should have at least one ally on her side when she walks back into that Sanctuary."

"Mother is there," she says, almost _flippantly_ in Cicero's opinion. "I don't want to hear anymore fussing about it," she pauses, then says, "and that's an _order_ , Keeper."

The authoritative tone of her voice curbs his desire to argue, though it does not ease his worries. "Yes, Listener, Cicero will do as you command," he says, albeit begrudgingly.

"Good." Lumen sighs, running her hand through her windblown hair in a futile attempt to tame it. "I don't think it's wise for you to remain in Dawnstar. Astrid knows I followed you here, and I wouldn't put it past her to send someone to look around."

"Do not worry about Cicero," he says, patting her on the shoulder and feeling rather pleased that she continues to concern herself with his safety. "Cicero can take care of himself."

"I know you can," Lumen says softly, and then looks away from Cicero. "I guess I should probably head back to Falkreath. If I dawdle for too long it might seem suspicious."

Cicero watches Lumen as she tugs her fur cloak around her shoulders and grabs her pack, all while taking care not to let him see the hurt in her eyes, even though he can easily hear it in her voice. He would like to revel in the thought that his Listener doesn't want to leave him behind, but her distress weighs heavily on him. What's worse is that he can't do anything about it. He can't stop her. She's determined to see her plan through, and all Cicero can do is hope the Night Mother keeps her safe.

* * *

The familiar scent of the pine forest welcomes Lumen home, even though Falkreath feels like anything but. The forest feels empty, and no doubt the Sanctuary will too. This place isn't home without Cicero's cheerful, albeit loud, presence. Leaving him behind had been more painful than Lumen ever imagined. So she kept her goodbyes short and left Dawnstar as quickly as possible.

Shadowmere doesn't need Lumen's guidance to find his way back to the Sanctuary, which gives her plenty of opportunity to fret over what she may be going home to. A dozen scenarios play in her mind, each more unpleasant than the last. What if Arnbjorn tells Astrid what happened? What if he doesn't? What if he expects their little affair to continue?

"What in the Void have I gotten myself into?" she murmurs, wondering if it's too late to turn the horse around and ride back to Dawnstar.

"Oy!"

She looks up to see two men approaching her, one in leather armor and the other in furs. Both have friendly smiles on their faces, but Shadowmere's pinned back ears and violently swishing tail indicate otherwise. Not friends; bandits. And bandits are the last thing Lumen wants to deal with after a long, exhausting journey.

"I would advise you to keep your distance, sirs, my horse is a bit nervous and prone to kicking," she says, holding her head up and squaring her shoulders. Hoping she doesn't look as tired as she feels.

The two men laugh, and the one in furs says, "Well, that presents a problem, because this here's a toll road."

"I suppose you could just toss your coin purse to us," the man in leather says, while fingering the hilt of his sword. "Like your horse, we're prone to violence as well."

"It'd be a shame if we had to kill you and your horse over a little gold, wouldn't it?"

Long before Lumen ever came to Skyrim, she ran with a group of bandits for a couple of years. As a result, she knows this shtick well, and she knows gold is not enough. If she hands her gold over, then they'll want her weapons next, then her armor, then her horse, and maybe even _her_. She's seen it happen too many times to believe this time will be any different. There's no choice but to fight.

Without warning, Lumen draws her dagger and leaps from the saddle, rushing at the man in furs while Shadowmere gallops toward the man in leather. The steed rears up, catching the bandit in the chest with a large, black hoof and knocking him on his back.

The man in furs is fast, and very skilled with his sword, while Lumen is sore, exhausted, and slow. Every muscle in her body protests, screaming in pain with every step, parry, and thrust she makes. Behind her, she can hear the wet crunch of a cracking skull, and the man in furs is distracted by his companion's demise long enough for Lumen to put some distance between them. She backs away from him, but in her haste she trips over an unearthed tree root and falls backwards.

The man in furs bears down on her, fury in his eyes and his lip curled in a snarl. Lumen sucks in a deep breath, readying a Shout that dies on her tongue when the blade of an axe carves the bandit's head in two. The man falls in a spray of blood, revealing her savior; Arnbjorn. But the sight of him is hardly comforting when he's standing over her, his battle axe covered with blood and ragged bits of scalp.

"Arnbjorn," she breathes, still winded from the fight. "Thanks."

"You're lucky I was in the area, elf," he says, extending his hand and offering to help Lumen to her feet.

She hesitates before finally slipping her hand in his, and standing up on unsteady legs. " _Elf_? What happened to 'tidbit' and 'morsel'?"

"Those were terms of endearment," he says, quickly letting go of her hand as if it burns him. "And I no longer feel the slightest inkling of affection for you."

"As if there was ever any to begin with," Lumen says, sheathing her dagger and dusting herself off.

"Don't make assumptions about me," he snarls. "I liked you well enough at first. You seemed loyal and competent. But whatever fondness I had for you died in Dawnstar."

"Wait, is this because I kicked you out of bed? I didn't think you were the cuddling type-"

"No," he hisses. "You know, I've had some time to think about what happened, and most importantly, I've had some time to sober up." Arnbjorn lets his axe fall to the ground, and he advances on her. Lumen steps backwards until she is stopped by the trunk of a large tree. Arnbjorn places his hands on either side of her, trapping her. His eyes meet hers when he says, "Your performance was lacking."

Lumen shifts uncomfortably. "Lacking?" she asks, even though she's not certain that she wants to hear the answer.

"If you had pretended to enjoy yourself, maybe I wouldn't have questioned what happened so much. Maybe I'd even ignore the fact you drugged me and then lied about it," he pauses. "Maybe I wouldn't be thinking about telling my wife."

"I don't think she'll take the news very well," she says, not bothering to ask how he figured out he was drugged. She had been afraid he would figure it out anyway.

"She'll be angry with me, but I think I would prefer her anger over her indifference. At least it would be _something_ ," he tells her, his voice wavering slightly. "But you? Oh, she'll _kill_ you."

"So what's stopping you?" Lumen asks, looking away from him and breaking the uncomfortable eye-contact. Over his shoulder she can see Shadowmere pawing at the ground and keeping a wary eye on the two bickering siblings.

"The clown," he says, gripping her chin with his thumb and forefinger and forcing her to look at him. "I know he's alive, and you're a bigger fool than he is if you think you can fuck me into complacency. So here's what I'm going to do... I'm going to find that little bastard, and I'm going to bring his head to my wife, and then- _then_ I'll tell her everything."

Lumen grits her teeth. "And what are you going to tell her? That I forced myself on you? You could've easily thrown me off of you, Arnbjorn. So don't pretend like you didn't want it," she snaps.

"I didn't want a lie!"

That admission, along with the obvious hurt in his voice gives her pause. When she set out to seduce him, she only concerned herself with the physical; how to get him to want her, to respond and reciprocate. She never considered his feelings.

"What did you want, exactly?" Lumen asks, knowing Arnbjorn is as likely to spit in her face as he is to answer her at this point.

"Something real," he says bitterly. "It's nice to be wanted, even if it was just for one night. But you didn't want me at all, did you? There was nothing genuine about your advances," he pushes away from her, letting his arms hang at his sides. "Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've touched my wife? I want to blame it on her obsession with Emperor contract, but I can't. Our marriage was falling apart long before we ever met you."

"And you think she'll pay attention to you if you bring her Cicero's head?" Lumen asks, not quite following Arnbjorn's logic.

"No," he says solemnly.

"Then, why-"

"Because I love her!" he snaps, his hands clenching at his sides. "I still love her, even if she doesn't love me, and I don't expect _you_ to understand that... Or maybe you can. I suppose you did what you did because you love the clown."

Lumen opens her mouth to argue, but her words falter and her breath catches in her chest. She only ever wanted to keep Cicero safe. She never bothered to explore the intricacies of that particular desire. "No," she says forcefully. "You're wrong."

"I don't think so," he says, walking away from her to retrieve his battle axe. Once he cleans the blood and viscera from the blade, he straps it to his back and says, "Go home, elf. Astrid has been worried about you. She'll be relieved to know you're all right."

An unfamiliar and wholly uncomfortable feeling twists in her stomach, and Lumen can only assume this is what guilt feels like. Damn it all. She didn't expect her plans to backfire so spectacularly, but they did. She doesn't want to face Astrid and accept her gratitude, she doesn't want to deal with Arnbjorn's anger, and she doesn't want to worry about Cicero's safety. She doesn't want to care anymore, but she does. She cares _too much_ when she used to not care at all.

"Arnbjorn, I-" she stammers, not knowing what to say or do, and just wishing she could reverse time and make it so this whole fiasco never happened. Arnbjorn doesn't respond, he just turns and walks away from her, heading down the path that will lead him out of the pine forest and closer to Cicero, and there's nothing Lumen can do to stop him.

* * *

"There you are! Thank Sithis, you're all right!" Astrid exclaims, sweeping Lumen into a fierce hug as soon as she enters the Sanctuary. She pulls away, but her hands remain on Lumen's shoulders. "Arnbjorn is safe, and for that you have my thanks. But what of Cicero? Is he dead?"

Lumen nods. "He is," she says, wondering how long the lie will hold.

"You look exhausted," Astrid says softly, her hands dropping from Lumen's shoulders. "You get some rest, and we'll talk in the morning, okay? Just do me a favor and stick around for a while. I'll have a contract ready for you in a few days."

"I will," Lumen says, eager to get away from Astrid, and even more eager to drown her sorrows with a very strong drink.

The Sanctuary feels dreadfully empty, and entirely too quiet. It's strange not to hear Arnbjorn at his forge, and even stranger not to hear Cicero humming in his room. Lumen enters the chapel, which is empty as usual. No doubt the rest of her siblings are keeping their distance from the Night Mother since Cicero attacked Astrid.

Lumen sinks down on a stone bench near the coffin and whispers, "Dear, sweet, Night Mother, I've really screwed the pooch- _hah_! Oh, I didn't even mean it like _that_ \- Cicero would laugh himself sick if he heard that, wouldn't he?" No response. Not that Lumen really expects the Night Mother to laugh at her poor humor. But _something_ would be nice. The silence is almost maddening.

For lack of anything better to do, Lumen reaches in her pack when she remembers that she collected Cicero's journals when she took off after him. So she grabs the oldest volume and flips it open. "Fourth era, 186- gods, that's ages ago..." she murmurs to herself. That was the year Malrian began his crusade against the Dark Brotherhood.

Cicero's journal begins with the mention of the fall of the Bruma Sanctuary, and that chills her to the bone. He'd been at Bruma, and then he'd gone to Cheydinhal and managed to survive all the chaos there. Somehow Cicero had missed dying by Malrian's hand _twice_.

Lumen takes a deep, steadying breath, and begins to read. Her eyes skim over Cicero's familiar, loopy handwriting. It was a bit neater fifteen years ago than it is now, but she can easily recognize it as his. The tone, however, the tone is different. She knows he's intelligent, but in 186 he was _sane_ and focused and so articulate. Lumen carefully turns the pages of the worn, well-loved books, studying every passage. She reads about the fall of the sanctuaries, the loss of various brothers and sisters, the Night Mother's arrival, Cicero being named Keeper, and his last, final contract.

The fourth journal is difficult to read. His mind was definitely slipping when he began writing this volume, but then- she notices an eight year break. No writing for eight years, and he was alone for ten with no one but the Night Mother to keep him company. It's amazing he can even function at all, and Lumen is glad she ordered Lucien to stay with Cicero rather than come with her to Falkreath. But she wants to be there with him, wants to talk to him about all of this, about everything she's learned from his journals and everything he _should_ know. He needs to know the Brotherhood was betrayed.

 _He_ was betrayed. Someone, maybe someone close to him, sold the Dark Brotherhood out to Malrian. Sanctuaries were destroyed, siblings were killed, and poor Cicero was left to rot.

She puts the fourth volume aside. Lumen already read the fifth volume when she was looking for any clue that would lead her to Cicero after he attacked Astrid. So she picks up the sixth volume. It seems to be an account of his journey across Skyrim, and she flips through the pages until _her name_ catches her eye.

_17th of Last Seed, 4E 201_

_The journey to Falkreath has proven to be ill-fated. Cicero's wagon has broken and he is stuck on the road near a miserable farm with a miserable farmer who refuses to help him. But Cicero is patient. Cicero will wait. The farmer will eventually agree because he has a pretty wife, and it would be a shame if anything were to happen to her lovely face._

_However, Cicero may be in luck! A nice Bosmer has offered to help him and she is speaking to the stupid farmer right now. Right as I write!_

_17th of Last Seed, 4E 201. Evening._

_Cicero's wagon is fixed and Mother is on her way to her new home thanks to the nice Bosmer. She said her name was Lumen. Cicero likes the way her name rolls off his tongue. It's fun to say. He said it a few times even though he and the kind elf have gone their separate ways._

Lumen smiles at the memory of that day. She'd been both curious and put-off by Cicero at the same time. Jesters are hardly common in Cyrodiil since the Great War, and she never expected to see one in Skyrim.

She continues to peruse the journal, preferring to snoop through Cicero's personal thoughts than get lost in her own.

_26th of Last Seed, 4E 201_

_Cicero arrived in Falkreath today after yet another series of delays. (Cicero may have taken a wrong turn, and he may have encountered some bandits, and he may have gleefully taught those bandits the error of their ways.)_

_Astrid is trying to be friendly, but her hulking, beast of a husband is a different matter entirely. Still, Cicero has been welcomed to his new home and given a room of his own! He likes his new siblings very much. And the kind Bosmer from the road is here, too! Sweet, kind, ~~shapely~~ Lumen! She even remembered poor Cicero._

_Cicero likes being remembered._

Lumen has to laugh at the thought of Cicero getting lost on his way to Falkreath. That poor man really did have a hard time. Skyrim is not an easy land to travel, and she can't imagine how difficult it must have been for Cicero; fighting inclement weather, bandits, and wagon trouble, all while having to guard the precious cargo strapped to the back of the wagon.

_27th of Last Seed, 4E 201_

_Lumen's curiosity might be a problem. Caught her sneaking near Mother. Too near. And while Cicero did enjoy watching, stalking, and catching, he does not enjoy the thought of anyone's hands touching his dear, sweet, Mother._

_Cicero thinks the Pretender sent his sister to defile Mother. Lumen claimed otherwise, but Cicero cannot trust her. He cannot trust anyone here._

A shiver runs through her when she remembers that night. Specifically, she recalls what had happened right before she tore out of the chapel; her blood on his fingers, on his tongue, and his obvious pleasure at the first taste. That was the night the weird, little man had started to worm his way beneath her skin.

_8th of Hearthfire, 4E 201_

_Cicero has spent the week speaking with his new siblings. Talked with Festus Krex for a long time about the Old Ways. Spoke with pretty Gabriella and Babette about the Night Mother, and Cicero tried to speak with Nazir, but he was politely ignored. Veezara is out on a contract. Cicero will speak to him when he returns. Astrid and her hound are lost causes. There is no reason to try._

_Cicero just needs to find the Listener and then everything will be put right._

_Cicero has talked with Lumen a few times as well. Curious, that one. Too curious. She asks an endless amount of questions, and sometimes she asks questions that Cicero would rather not answer._

_10th of Hearthfire, 4E 201_

_Cicero thinks Lumen asks questions because she likes to hear him talk. She has taken a shine to me, that much is obvious. She blushes easily. I just wish she would not run away right when things start to get interesting. How is Cicero supposed to have any fun if his sister will not stay to play?_

Damn him for being so bloody perceptive. He was able to recognize her attraction for him long before she was able to admit it to herself.

_1st of Frostfall, 4E 201_

_Lumen is the Listener! Mother must be so pleased! Cicero certainly is!_

_The look on Astrid's face was marvelous, and I will remember it forever. Feeling threatened, Pretender? You should be._

_Lumen seemed a little overwhelmed by it all, and who could blame her? Being named as the Listener is a great honor and a great responsibility. She left the Sanctuary to hunt vampires all on her own... at night! Silly Lumen! So Cicero went with her, got to sneak and stab and kill, and just when I thought the night could not get any better, it did!_

_She kissed me! And it was about time, too. Cicero was getting tired of waiting for her to make up her mind. But it was wonderful! Lethal, Listener Lumen kissed Cicero under the light of the moons. Well, 'kissed' is not quite the word for it. The beautiful Bosmer positively ravaged Cicero's mouth with her own. Perhaps Cicero should refrain from writing down such personal details, but he is_ ~~ _afraid the Listener will come to her senses and decide that she does not want a fool_~~ _afraid he might forget._

Does he really feel that way? Is he really that vulnerable? It's not surprising that she didn't know. She never bothered to ask. Cicero is sweet and affectionate, and he worries like an old, mother hen, and he's positively starving for approval, but she never thought he feared her rejection from the start. Of course, that may not be the case now, not when she considers his rotten behavior back in Dawnstar. Her little fool had gained some confidence at some point.

_3rd of Frostfall, 4E 201_

_Lumen and the Pretender have gone to Volunruud (Cicero had to ask the sheepdog how to spell that, and he has decided that the Nords have no concept of spelling. Two U's? Ridiculous!) Sweet Lumen was worried about leaving with Astrid. She fears treachery. So does Cicero, but Cicero could not let it show. No, a good Keeper must be strong when the Listener is not._

_Cicero cannot help but wonder if Lumen would have ignored Mother's instructions if Astrid commanded her to. For reasons Cicero cannot imagine, the Listener seems to like the Pretender. She wants her approval._

_She has Mother's approval. How much more does she need?_

_11th of Frostfall, 4E 201_

_Lumen is home. She is safe and sleeping soundly in her bed._

_Lumen and I... had words. Well, truth be told, Cicero was quite angry with her for willingly following the Pretender's every beck and call. She became upset and left the safety of the Sanctuary to prowl the forest alone. So loyal Cicero followed her from the shadows and I saw... I saw her mask slip. I saw her kill for the pleasure of it. To quell the need that drives people like us. It was beautiful._

_Although, I was nearly unmade when Lumen's mouth claimed mine and her hands went... elsewhere. To say that I had wanted her for quite some time would be an understatement. But the decision was best left up to her. I do not know if she wants anything more from me. Perhaps I am just a sentimental, old fool who has been alone for far too long, but I hope she does._

Lumen snaps the journal shut. This doesn't even sound like the Cicero she knows, unless he was always holding back because he knew she would run away if things got too serious. She can't continue reading it. He never meant for her to know any of this, and she wishes she didn't know because it would be easier to ignore the ache forming in her chest. It's painful and distracting, and the only way to make it stop hurting is to stop thinking about Cicero. But it's impossible not to think about him. Not now. Not after learning so much.

"Damn it," she says to herself. Gathering the journals and placing them back in her pack, Lumen wanders off toward the Black Door. As much as she needs sleep; she needs a distraction even more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. There are so many feelings in this chapter! Don't worry, there will be violence in the next one. I swear I haven't lost my touch. ;) 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!


	13. Death Incarnate

An easy kill is what Lumen had in mind when she came to Falkreath. It's late in the evening and she expected the city would be dark and quiet aside from the occasional patrolling guard or drunkard stumbling home from the inn. She didn't expect the city to be bursting with people, noise, and light. They're celebrating, though Lumen isn't certain why. All she's certain of is that she won't be spilling any blood tonight.

 _"It's probably for the best,"_ she silently reasons. She has no plan and the kill would be messy, and she'd probably get caught. With nothing left to do, and no desire to return home just yet, Lumen makes her way through the crowd of revelers to the Dead Man's Drink. She's already in Falkreath, so she may as well have a meal and collect any letters that may have come for her.

There are very few patrons in the inn, which isn't surprising seeing as the citizens of Falkreath seemed content to drink and sing outside. Lumen steps up to the bar and smiles at Valga, the innkeeper. Weeks ago, Lumen struck a deal with Valga; offering her a handful of gold if she promised to hold any letters that came for her.

"Good evening, Valga." Lumen settles on a barstool and asks, "Have any letters for me?"

"Just one," she responds, reaching beneath the counter and producing a sealed letter for Lumen. "It came a few days ago."

Lumen takes the letter and hands Valga some gold for her trouble. "So, why is everyone celebrating? It's not a holiday, is it?"

"We have a new jarl," Valga explains. "With the war going on, the people of Skyrim have so few reasons to celebrate. I don't know what kind of a ruler Jarl Siddgeir will be, but as long as the people of Falkreath continue to drink my mead I won't complain." The innkeeper spares a glance at two large Nords sitting at the far end of the bar, then turns to attention back to Lumen. "So can I get you anything else?"

"Mead and a bowl of whatever you have cooking on the fire," Lumen says, breaking the wax seal on the letter and flipping it open.

" _Lumen,_

_We need to talk. Come to Riverwood as soon as you can._

_D_ "

Lumen sighs, wishing Delphine would stop being so paranoid and at least give her some information to go on. Riverwood isn't too far away from Falkreath, but if Astrid is working on a contract for Lumen, then she should stay put for a while. She could really use the gold.

Lumen folds the letter and sets it aside. Preferring to focus on her dinner and mead first, and then think on what to do about Delphine second. She tucks into her meal, half listening to the conversation between the two Nords at the end of the bar.

"Have you had any luck, Valdr?"

Valdr heaves a forlorn sigh. "No, nothing. I even took my hounds with me like you asked. They can track anything, but so far there's been no sign of Runil."

"Damn it," Kust says, taking a large gulp of his mead.

"We could round up some volunteers and do another search," Valdr suggests. "He wouldn't be the first old man to get lost in these woods, you know."

"Runil was old, even for an Altmer, but his mind was still sharp. He knew better than to wander off the paths." Kust nervously runs his fingers through his cropped hair. "I think something happened to him."

"That is a possibility," Valdr says quietly. "But I can't imagine who would want to hurt him."

"To make matters worse, the jarl's steward came to speak with me today. She says she's going to start looking in to finding a new priest of Arkay to replace Runil. It feels like an insult to replace him when we don't even know what happened to him. I know he's probably-" his voice hitches, " _gone_ , but I'd like to have the chance to put him to rest." Kust sighs, then in a softer voice he says, "I'd like the chance to say goodbye."

Lumen thought coming into the town would provide a distraction. It was supposed to keep her from thinking about Cicero, but the mention of the priest of Arkay brings the memories of that night flooding back yet again. It was Cicero who suggested they hide the body deep in the woods, rather than leave it out in the open. He said the people of Falkreath would miss their priest, and he wasn't wrong.

It's not often that she's confronted with the pain that she leaves in her wake. Once she makes a kill, she doesn't go out of her way to be near the people who mourn her victims. She doesn't feel guilty for killing him. Not really. It's not her fault the senseless old man decided to walk around a graveyard in the middle of the night. It's not her fault he turned his back to her. It's not her fault killing him felt _so damn good_.

With a sigh, Lumen places her spoon down and stares at her half eaten bowl of flavorless stew. She should've eaten dinner at the Sanctuary. Nazir's cooking is always full of flavor, and he would've turned his nose up at the poor cut of meat Valga used in her beef stew. As it is, Lumen feels like she's eating a wet saddle. Along with better food, the conversation at home would be more enjoyable as well. They would be reveling in the priest's demise, rather than mourning it.

Lumen sets a small stack of gold on the counter to pay for her meal and drink, and with Delphine's letter in hand, she heads back home. As much as Cicero's absence may pain her, the Sanctuary is still the only place she really wants to be.

* * *

The next morning Lumen finds herself swarmed by her brothers and sisters, with the exception of Festus, who is out on a contract. They all wish to offer their opinions on Cicero's demise and to congratulate her for putting the madman down. She doesn't have it in her to feel guilty for lying to them. Instead, she just offers them a fake smile and describes the tall tale of his death in graphic, gory detail.

After the assassins slowly file out the kitchen, Gabriella approaches Lumen. The beautiful Dunmer had been silent through Lumen's stories and had yet to say anything to her on the subject of Cicero. Clearly she had been waiting to speak with Lumen alone.

"How are you holding up?" Gabriella asks, then in a quiet voice she adds, "I know you and Cicero were close, and I can't imagine that any of this is easy for you. The others don't know what this has cost you."

"I'm fine," Lumen says, not wishing to discuss it any further.

"You're a terrible liar." Gabriella reaches into the pocket of her robes and pulls out a small tin box. "I made these for you. I thought you might need them," she explains as she hands it to Lumen.

Lumen opens the small box, which contains tea satchels filled with fragrant mixture. "Thank you," she says, even though she is a little confused by the gift. "What's in it?"

Gabriella smiles softly. "Canis Root and Moon Sugar are the main ingredients. But I added some orange rind and cinnamon for flavor." She gives Lumen's hand a quick squeeze before pulling away. "It's called Mourning tea."

"I've heard of Mourning tea," Lumen says. "Canis Root to numb the pain of loss..."

"And Moon Sugar to help you forget," Gabriella adds gently. "You did what you had to do. Astrid gave you an order and you followed it. But Cicero was your brother and friend. There's no shame in mourning him, and there's no shame in easing the burden."

Lumen is struck silent by the significance of the gift. The tea is notoriously difficult to make, and expensive to buy if purchased from an apothecary. It's a very personal gift that is usually given to the immediate family of the departed during a funeral. Often the friends of the bereaved will pool their funds to purchase it. But Gabriella didn't buy it; she made it especially for Lumen.

"I don't know what to say," Lumen stammers.

"Say nothing. You already thanked me, sister," Gabriella says. "Just drink your tea so that you can stay on task. You're a promising assassin, and it would not do for you to be caught or killed because you're overburdened with emotion."

Lumen nods her assent, and Gabriella turns away to step into the alchemy room while Lumen ascends the rickety, wooden stairs that lead to the sleeping area. She misses Cicero, but the pain is not so overwhelming that she needs Mourning tea. Not right now, anyway. So she hides the tea inside her trunk, not wanting Astrid or anyone else to know she has it. Anyone but Gabriella might find it rather suspicious, and she has no desire to weave more lies or to explain her relationship with the Keeper.

* * *

The next few days drag by slowly. Lumen passes the time by doing mundane chores around the Sanctuary, training with Veezara, and by helping Nazir in the kitchen. The prideful Redguard refused to let her help him cook, but he did set her to work on cleaning and chopping various ingredients. It's busy work, but it does keep her mind from wandering to unpleasant places. Lumen has even kept the Night Mother's shrine cleaned and the candles lit, even though Astrid would prefer it if the Night Mother and her chapel were sealed away for good.

"By Sithis, I'll never get this right," Veezara grumbles as the gold coin falls off his scaly hand and onto the kitchen table.

Lumen smiles and continues to 'walk' her own coin across the top of her fingers. "You will, it just takes a little practice. It's not an easy trick to learn."

"Who taught you?" he asks. The Argonian had seen Lumen flipping a gold coin across the top of her fingers the previous night, and he'd been fascinated by the trick ever sense. For lack of anything better to do, and to thank him for training with her, Lumen offered to teach him.

"An old friend," she says, watching Veezara try the trick again. "He was a mercenary. He used the trick to impress women and attract patrons."

"Were you impressed?" Veezara asks, hissing when he drops his coin again.

"By the coin trick? No." Lumen says, barely containing a laugh at Veezara's frustration. "The only impressive thing about him was the size of his sword."

Veezara laughs at that. "Did he wield it well? I always heard it's not so much the size that matters, but the skill of the swordsman."

"As a matter of fact, he did."

From the other end of the table, Nazir clears his throat and lowers the book he's been reading just enough to glare at the pair of giggling assassins. "Really, you two."

"Oh, get your mind out of the midden," Lumen says, resulting in more laughter from the Argonian. "We're only discussing his skill as a swordsman."

"Never mind Nazir," Veezara says, grinning broadly. "He's just sensitive about his curved sword."

Nazir laughs, shaking his head. "You both should know better than to harass the person who cooks your food."

Lumen smiles, but it fades a bit when Astrid enters the kitchen. "I hate to break up the party, but I need to borrow Lumen for a moment," she says, beckoning for Lumen to follow her. Lumen leaves the relative cheer of the kitchen behind and follows Astrid to her desk, where Festus Krex is waiting for them.

"Ah, there you are," the old man grumbles. "Took care of that clown for us, did you? Well done. You know, I've always wanted to kill a clown. How was it?"

"Um-" Lumen's gaze flits between Astrid and Festus. "It was like killing anyone else, really."

Festus grunts. "Way to take the fun out of it. Anyway, you've heard of the Gourmet, right? Read his cookbook?"

"I've heard of him, yes," Lumen says, wondering what all this is about.

"Well, while you were off dealing with Cicero, Astrid sent me to kill the Gourmet and steal his Writ of Passage," Festus explains, waving a slip of paper in the air before it's snatched away by Astrid. "Did you know he was an Orc? Orcs make the funniest sounds when they burn to death."

"I always figured he was a Breton," Lumen says, then turns to Astrid. "So why do we have the Writ? Astrid- are you going to impersonate the Gourmet?"

"No," Astrid says, smiling. "You are."

"I- wait, what?"

"I've decided you should have the honor," Astrid tells her. "You're the Listener, after all. You brought us this contract, and I think you should be the one to kill the emperor."

Lumen nods, her mind reeling. "Just tell me what to do."

"You are to travel to Castle Dour in Solitude and present the Gourmet's Writ of Passage to the officer in charge, Commander Maro."

"Maro..." Lumen says. "That name is familiar."

"It should be," Festus cuts in. "You killed his son."

Astrid sits on her desk and crosses her legs, grinning when she says, "Once you give him the Writ, you'll have unrestricted access of the kitchens, and then the emperor."

"How am I to poison him?" she asks. Lumen never did like using poisons. Just the mention of them reminds her too much of her mother. But she can see the necessity in this case.

"With this," Astrid says, holding up a glass vial of small, red twigs. "This is Jarrin Root. It's the strongest poison known to us, and all it will take is one taste. So don't get too curious about it. Once Mede is dead, you'll escape through a door that leads to a bridge outside. I've arranged for it to be unguarded, but you'll still need to move fast."

"When should I leave?" Lumen asks, still amazed that Astrid is giving this contract to her and not keeping it for herself. Something about this just doesn't feel right, but she wonders if she's just nervous. Even to someone with no political leanings, killing the Emperor of Tamriel is definitely something to be a little nervous about.

"Today, and I want you to take Shadowmere. He's fast, and he hasn't been ridden nearly as much as he should lately. Oh, and before I forget-" Astrid hands Lumen a white dress and a chef's hat. "Here's your disguise. You'll need to look the part of a master chef rather than a cold-blooded assassin."

Lumen takes the clothes, along with the vial of Jarrin Root and the Writ. Mildly annoyed that Astrid would assume she'd just waltz into Castle Dour wearing her shrouded armor. "Thank you, Astrid," she says, quickly adding, "And Festus, thank you for getting the Writ."

Astrid waves her hand dismissively. "Now go, Listener. Make your family proud."

"Good luck, kid," Festus says, roughly patting Lumen on the back. "Don't screw this up."

* * *

The Solitude sky is fading from the golden glow of another brilliant sunset, to the deep, purple of dusk. The air is cold, and made even colder by the sticky humidity that rises from the sea far below the city. Lumen barely notices either as she makes her way up the ramp to Castle Dour. The pounding of her heart and the nervous cramping of her stomach have her too distracted to even notice the local blacksmith until she nearly runs into him. The man just laughs, bids her good evening, and sends her on her way. He thinks nothing of the encounter, while Lumen mentally berates herself for being so careless.

In spite of wanting this contract, it's not her _type_ of kill. It does not play to her strengths at all. Lumen is better equipped for skulking through the shadows and ending a life with her blade or her bare hands. A contract where one needs to assume a role and play it well seems more like something Cicero or Gabriella would excel at. But it's too late to back out now, and there's no sense in worrying about her performance. She has to do her best, and she has to succeed. Failure is not an option.

The courtyard of Castle Dour is empty aside from a few guards standing at their posts, and Commander Maro standing outside the main entrance of the Emperor's Tower. The guards glance her way, but they pay her little mind. An elf dressed in a chef's uniform is hardly an uncommon sight in Skyrim. Commander Maro doesn't even look at her when he hears her approach.

"This tower is off limits," he says dully, as if he's had to repeat the words so many times they've lost all meaning.

She lifts her chin, hoping to take on the air of a haughty chef, rather than a nervous assassin. "Not to me," she says, handing the Writ of Passage over to Maro and making a show of straightening her white apron. The chef's hat is still folded in the pocket of the apron with the vial of Jarrin Root safely tucked inside.

Maro looks over the Writ, then back to her. "Oh! Of course, I should have noticed your clothes. I apologize," he says and opens the door to the tower for her. "Gianna, the castle chef is waiting for you in the kitchen."

Lumen thanks him and walks inside, unable to shake the strange feeling settling over her like the weight of a heavy cloak. There's something in the way he was looking at her- no, no. She's being ridiculous. Maro doesn't know who she is, and there's no way he could know she is the assassin that killed his son.

_"I'm just being paranoid... Delphine would be so proud."_

With steady, measured steps, Lumen makes her way through the tower and to the kitchen. The scent of cooking food hits her nose before she enters the room, and her steps falter for a moment as her stomach churns painfully. She's wanted this contract ever since she and Astrid spoke to Motierre all those months ago. But now that she's mere moments away from killing the emperor, she's terrified and ecstatic all at once. Her hands are shaking, her head is spinning, and she'll probably be sick from anxiety when it's all over.

Later, though, she can be sick _later_. For now, Lumen steels herself as she puts on the chef's hat and steps into the kitchen.

A pretty Imperial woman is hovering over a large cooking pot, and she doesn't bother to look up when she hears Lumen enter the room. "Can I help you?" she asks. "I don't need any more supplies, so-"

"Do I look like a servant to you?" Lumen snaps, placing her hands on her hips. If she can take anything from being raised by an Altmer, it's the ability to act pretentious when necessary. "I am _the Gourmet_ , dear. I believe you've been expecting me?"

The woman does look up at that, and her face breaks out into a brilliant smile. " _You're_ the Gourmet? Oh, I guessed it right!"

"Excuse me?"

"I- I always imagined the great Gourmet was a Wood Elf," she explains. "You see, only someone with knowledge of woodland herbs could combine- Oh, oh I'm sorry. I'm rambling. Anyway- my name is Gianna, and it's such an honor to work with you."

"I am here to cook, not to talk." Lumen frowns at Gianna and steps up to the cooking pot. "Shall we begin?"

"Yes, of course! The emperor requested your signature dish; the Potage le Magnifique. I hope you don't mind but I've already started preparing the stock, all I need now is your direction."

"Excellent," Lumen says, glancing down at the ingredients on the counter. "And all I need is a little space. So, if you don't mind..." Lumen shoos Gianna away and says, "I don't care if you watch, but do try to stay out of my way."

"Ah, my apologies," Gianna says, stepping away to give Lumen room to work, fidgeting nervously with her apron. "I can help you if you need it..."

"I hardly need help when it comes to preparing my own recipe," Lumen says as she begins chopping carrots. "If you really want to feel useful, why don't you get a cup of- um, vampire dust and add it to the pot."

"Vampire dust? Really?" Gianna gives Lumen a strange look before shrugging and doing as she's told.

 _"Why not?"_ Lumen thinks, biting her lip to suppress a grin. Once Lumen has added the carrots, a sprig of thistle, and potatoes to the stew, she pulls the small vial of Jarrin Root from her pocket. She dumps the twigs into a mortar and carefully grinds it into a powder with the pestle, taking great care to not make too much dust.

"Ooh..." Gianna peers over her shoulder. "What is that? Some kind of herb?"

"Yes, it's my secret ingredient," Lumen tells her as she carefully pours the powder into the stew. "It'll give the Potage a truly intense flavor."

Gianna gasps in awe. "What's it called?"

"If I told you, then it wouldn't be a secret, would it?" Lumen grins at the woman and says, "Now, be a dear and bring me a serving bowl."

Gianna lifts an eyebrow at Lumen before retrieving a large, porcelain bowl with a fitted lid from the cabinet. She places it next to the cooking pot and begins to ladle the contents inside. "I'll carry the _tureen_ , and lead the way to the dining room," she says, clearly unimpressed that the Gourmet did not use the proper term for the serving dish. "I'm sure the emperor and his guests are dying to meet you."

"I'm sure they are," she says, grateful that Gianna has offered to carry the dish. As it is, Lumen's hands are shaking so badly she'd probably spill the stew. She is quiet as she follows Gianna to the dining room. This is it. Lumen is seconds away from murdering the Emperor of Tamriel, and she still can't believe Astrid gave this contract to her rather than keeping it for herself. But as she and Gianna enter the dining room, and she hears the emperor's forced laugh, a feeling of unease settles over her again.

The guards greet them, and Gianna introduces Lumen as the Gourmet before ladling the poisoned potage into the emperor's soup bowl. Lumen stands near the door which will lead her to freedom, her gaze sweeping across the room as the emperor says something to his guests before lifting his spoon. But Lumen pays him no mind. Her attention is drawn to the guards as they nervously shuffle from foot to foot, and the way they deliberately look away from her, yet still keep a watch on her from the corners of their eyes. It's almost impossible to stay calm with every nerve firing, and every instinct telling her to _run_.

A gurgling sound yanks Lumen from her worries, and she turns to see the emperor choking on a foul-smelling, black liquid seeping from his mouth. Convulsions wrack his body, and Gianna's terrified scream is cut short by a guard shoving his sword through her stomach, as the others round on Lumen.

Lumen is moving before the emperor's body hits the floor. Once she makes it through the doorway she slams it closed to buy herself an inconsequential amount of time, and then she runs as fast as her legs will carry her. She is halfway across the bridge, halfway to freedom, when a slow, deliberate clap stops her in her tracks.

 _Maro_.

Commander Maro steps out onto a small platform above the stairwell, while three Penitus Oculatus agents appear in the doorway below him. The Imperial guards crash through the door behind Lumen, but they stop when they see Commander Maro.

"That man was, by far, the most insufferable decoy the emperor has ever employed," Maro says, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. "I'm glad he's dead, and I'm even happier that you killed him. You, an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood, have just made an attempt on the emperor's life. And you would've succeeded if a member of your little 'family' hadn't informed me of your plan. We worked out a deal, too. I get you, and the Dark Brotherhood gets to continue their miserable existence."

A chill of fear zips down Lumen's spine faster than lighting. _Betrayed_. She's been betrayed, and the pain cuts through her like a knife. If she can be grateful for anything in this moment, it's the fact that she's too numb to cry.

"I've changed my mind, though. I think I'll kill you and then butcher each and every one of your wretched friends. My men are on their way to put your Sanctuary to the sword. That's what I think of this little 'deal'." Maro's eyes are blazing with a hatred more intense than any dragon's fire, his lips curling in a snarl when he says, "You killed my son! My _only child_ is dead because of you!"

The bitter sting of betrayal gives way to fury when Maro threatens her Sanctuary. Mother is there. Her siblings can fight; they can protect themselves, but Mother can't. And gods willing, if Lumen survives this she plans to wring the neck of whomever sold her out to Maro. But she'll be damned if any harm comes to the Night Mother as a result of this betrayal.

Commander Maro lifts his sword. "Kill her! Kill her and leave nothing left to bury!"

The guards advance at her back, while Maro's men move toward her. Both exits are blocked, and there's no way Lumen can jump from the bridge. She is trapped, and with just a small dagger strapped to her thigh, Lumen has only one weapon to fall back on - her Voice. This is her only chance, and Lumen puts everything she's got into this Shout. She puts every ounce of pain, fury, and fear into the words, and the Shout tears from her throat with so much force it actually _hurts_.

**"FUS RO DAH!"**

Two of the Penitus Oculatus agents fly over the edge of the bridge, and a third tumbles backwards down the stairwell. Maro is lying flat on the cobblestone bridge, the force of the Shout having knocked him from his perch above the doorway. Lumen isn't certain if he's alive or dead, and at this very moment, she doesn't care. She stumbles away from the stunned guards behind her, trying to move quickly even though she is unbalanced from the powerful Shout sapping her energy, and stealing all the breath from her lungs.

Unsteady legs carry her down the winding staircase, and she nearly falls out the door that leads her from the city. The clanking of metal on stone tells her the Imperial guards are closing in on her. Lumen gasps for breath and starts to run, screaming for Shadowmere as she runs down the path toward Katla's Farm. Moments later the horse is barreling toward her, and Lumen grabs the horn of the saddle, pulling herself on top of Shadowmere before he's had the chance to come to a full stop.

"Home!" she yells, kicking the steed into a gallop. "Home, now!"

Shadowmere screams furiously as he takes off, his large hooves kicking up a spray of dirt and pebbles at the advancing Imperial guards. The horse tears down the road at an unnatural speed, the rhythm of his infernal hooves thundering through the countryside like a tempest. It will be hours before she is home, hours before she knows the fate of her family. All she can do is hope and pray that she makes it to the Sanctuary before Maro's men do.

* * *

The inky, black smoke of multiple fires curls into the thick, ever-present fog that normally hangs over the trees of the pine forest. The pleasant scent of Falkreath's evergreens are overpowered by the aroma of burning leaves and the noxious reek of the accelerant used to feed the fires. Judging by the amount of smoke and the distinct stench of sulfur, Lumen can only assume it's what's known as Imperial Fire. The deadly weapon is rumored to make fire burn hotter and longer than it normally would.

Lumen clenches her jaw to bite back a cry of rage. She's too late. _Too late._ But the sound of screaming and blades clashing deep in the woods gives her a small iota of hope. Her family is still alive. They are still fighting. And she'll not give into the overwhelming sorrow and anger until she sees them to safety or dies trying.

Her equine companion does not have the same restraint over his anger. Shadowmere's red eyes blaze even brighter than usual as he gallops through the forest, screeching furiously as he draws closer to their besieged home. The horse eventually slows, tossing his head and stamping his feet violently in an attempt to communicate to his rider. Lumen is familiar enough with horses to know when one is telling her to get off, and she's smart enough to dismount the enraged, daedric steed before she is thrown off. As soon as her feet hit the ground, he tears away from her, vanishing into the haze to join the fight unhindered by a rider.

It's difficult for Lumen to get her bearings in the darkness. Even though she's prowled this forest multiple times at night, she always had the moons to guide her and to light the paths. The impenetrable smoke blots out the moonlight, and she is further disoriented by the sounds of fighting all around her. She is close to panic until she sees a silvery flash of light just beyond the veil of smoke.

"Lucien?" she calls out. Foolish of her, perhaps. But if it is Lucien, she wouldn't want to sneak up on the ghost and have him turn on her thinking she's a potential enemy. Though she doubts his vision is as affected as hers by the smoke. It's not as if he's got eyes to irritate.

Unfortunately, her voice draws not only the attention of Lucien, but of a nearby Penitus Oculatus agent as well. A sword arcs through the air, and Lumen just narrowly blocks the blade with her daggers. The agent is not inexperienced in combat, but he picked the wrong assassin to attack. Within seconds he falls with both Lucien's spectral blade lodged in his neck, and Cicero's ebony dagger in his kidney.

"Listener," Cicero says, his voice shrill with fear. When Lumen lowers her blades, Cicero reaches out and grips her arm, assuring himself that she is real and not a panic-induced hallucination. "Cicero is relieved to see you." He gives her arm a gentle squeeze. "Cicero feared the worst."

Lumen touches his trembling hand with her own. "I'm relieved to see you as well, but- what are you doing here? Not that I'm complaining, mind you."

Cicero shrugs. "You said it would be dangerous for Cicero to stay in Dawnstar, that Astrid might send someone to look for him there. So he came to the last place anyone would think to look. Cicero did stay away from the Sanctuary, but then he saw the fire..."

"Come on, we need to find the others," Lumen says thickly. She leads the way down into the small grove, relieved when she sees Shadowmere's slightly obscured form near the black pool. "I got here as soon as I could. I stopped long enough to change into my armor but-"

Her words falter when the smoke clears enough to reveal Festus' lifeless body pinned to a tree by too many arrows to count. Even Cicero is silent; his normally fixed smile falling at the sight of a butchered sibling, and Lumen knows it's not the first time Cicero has seen a Sanctuary fall. Beside her, Lucien's form ripples violently, flickering like a flame caught in an errant breeze.

"Damn it," Lumen hisses, tearing her eyes away from Festus. Unable to look at the old man pinned to the tree. She can only hope he sent a few soldiers to the Void before they overpowered him. Maybe he even hit one with that spell he claimed turned people inside out.

"This way, Listener," Cicero says, guiding her toward the Black Door. The enchanted door doesn't bother with its usual greeting as it swings open, and Lumen, utterly unprepared for what lies within, follows Cicero and Lucien inside.

Lucien leads the way through the thick smoke and the noxious red haze, the Penitus Oculatus agents in the front room are no match for three enraged assassins. They fall quickly, their corpses bleeding out near Veezara's lifeless form. The sight of the dead Argonian hurts and Lumen's eyes sting from more than just the smoke. In her last days before the ill-fated contract, she'd grown rather fond of Veezara. Lumen rubs at her eyes, determined not to let the tears surface. She hasn't cried in years, not since her mother died, and she'll be damned if she starts crying now. Though her will comes close to breaking when they come across Gabriella; her body twisted on the floor like a broken doll. Rather than crying, Lumen unleashes her pain in a vicious string of curses and rips into the next agent she sees.

They find Nazir and Arnbjorn in the kitchen, both nursing injuries and valiantly fighting off multiple attackers. Cicero lets out a sudden laugh, devoid of his usual humor and tinged with a vicious rage as he descends upon the unsuspecting Penitus Oculatus agents. He moves quickly, his blade effortlessly slipping through the weak points in the soldiers armor, piercing hearts, livers, and kidneys. Lumen is less skilled at maneuvering around the armor, preferring to plunge the jagged blades of her daedric daggers into throats and eyes.

Nazir turns to Lumen when the last officer falls. "By Sithis, you're alive! I was starting to wonder," he gasps, then his eyes flick to Cicero and the spirit lingering next to him. "And Cicero? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you alive."

Arnbjorn stumbles toward them, one hand dragging his battle axe beside him, the other clasped tightly over the worst of his wounds. "What the fuck is he doing here?" he snarls, struggling to heft his weapon.

"He's here to help! The emperor- it was all a trap! I barely got out of there alive," Lumen says, moving to stand between Cicero and Arnbjorn, but Cicero gently nudges her aside. "We've been betrayed!"

"Cicero will gladly send the sheepdog to the Void," Cicero says, his voice eerily calm. "But only after Cicero finds Mother."

"Enough, you two! I've seen enough death for one day," Nazir says roughly, glaring at the two men. "We need to get out of here before we're roasted alive, and we won't be able to do that by fighting with each other."

The group of assassins can at least agree on that, and together they make their way to the second level of the Sanctuary. More soldiers await them in the sleeping area, and the group cuts them down one-by-one. The agents are hardly a match for a group armed to the teeth with sharp blades and the bitter anger of loss.

Lumen steps out into the hallway and is separated from the others when a wounded officer kicks over a barrel of accelerant. The oily mass catches fire almost instantly, preventing the others from getting through. Lumen yelps, jumping away from the blaze and dispatching the wounded man by kicking him into the fire he started. With nowhere left to run, Lumen enters the chapel. There is fire all around her and smoke in her lungs, and she isn't certain if she's hallucinating or not when she hears Mother calling to her.

_"Listener!"_

Lumen stumbles toward the coffin. Exhausted and disheartened, how easy it would be to just let the flames consume her. It looks as if she has little choice in the matter anyway, they were closing in, and fast.

_"Listener! Come to me, my child. Embrace me!"_

"Mother," she gasps. Gentle, phantom hands grab her and pull her toward the coffin, the door swinging open to reveal the corpse that beckons her. There is no way out of the chapel, and if Lumen has to go to the Void now, she may as well do so in the arms of the Night Mother. She embraces the withered body, finding the leathery skin pliable and pleasantly cool. Resting her cheek against the Night Mother's bony shoulder, she closes her eyes and lets the darkness take her.

* * *

Distantly, she can hear voices. At first they are distorted, as if she's underwater, but they become clearer with each jostle of the Night Mother's coffin. Her heart leaps when she realizes that not only is she alive, but what's left of her dysfunctional family is too.

"Hurry, Nazir!" Babette's voice rings out. "I'm telling you, she's in there!"

"I'm moving as fast as I can," Nazir grunts, his voice is closer than the vampire's. "I don't see you helping!"

"Oof-" Cicero, just as close as Nazir. "Mother is heavier than Cicero remembers."

More jostling, followed by more complaining from both Cicero and Nazir. Arnbjorn curses, but his voice is too far away for Lumen to understand what he's saying, then the coffin suddenly lurches forwards- upwards- Lumen can't tell. But she is grateful that the jostling has finally stopped.

" _There_ ," Arnbjorn snaps. "Damn weaklings."

The coffin doors open, its ancient hinges groaning loudly as the interior is flooded with dim, ash-choked light. "Astrid," Lumen rasps, her throat dry. "We need to find Astrid," she says, louder this time as she carefully climbs out of the coffin. As soon as Lumen is out of the way, Cicero begins fussing over the Night Mother and chattering away at her, apologizing profusely for his extended absence.

"That's what _I've_ been saying," Arnbjorn says. "Where is she?"

"I don't know. Your bedroom, maybe?" Lumen grabs Nazir's shoulders when she almost loses her balance. Without another word, Arnbjorn runs to his bedroom with Babette trailing after him.

"Easy, easy." Nazir grips her by her arm to steady her. "That was quite a fall you had."

"I'm fine," Lumen says, shrugging away from Nazir and taking in her surroundings. The Sanctuary is littered with debris, dead soldiers, and the smoldering remains of multiple fires. "I have to talk to Astrid," she says, more to herself than to the others. The Night Mother saved her life, and had given her an order to speak with Astrid. About what, Lumen isn't sure. Probably to confront her for leadership, or to get answers. The only person she'd not seen in the fight aside from Babette is Astrid, and Astrid is the only person with the means and motivation to sell Lumen out to Maro.

It's dark in the bedroom Astrid shares with Arnbjorn, but the corner is lit by the light of a dozen candles, and within the circle of candles is the charred body of Astrid. Babette stands nearby, her expression unreadable. Arnbjorn kneels beside his wife, his face twisting in grief as he gently holds her badly burned hand. Lumen slowly steps toward them, swallowing around a lump in her throat. Despite her treachery, despite her betrayal, Astrid deserves better than _this_.

"Shit." Lumen runs her hand through her hair, her eyes fixed on the mangled body of their former leader.

"Eloquent as always... " Astrid grunts in what Lumen supposes is a laugh. "Thank Sithis you're alive... Come closer. I'm- I can't-" she gasps, taking in deep, pained breaths. "It's hard to see."

Lumen kneels next to Astrid, taking in the sight of silent tears rolling down Arnbjorn's face. Behind her, she can hear Nazir and Cicero enter the room. Both are silent save for their soft footfalls against the gritty stone floor. The Redgard takes one look at Astrid and quickly looks away out of respect. Cicero's expression is as unreadable as Babette's, but Lumen doubts he will be mourning Astrid's death anytime soon.

"I'm sorry, Lumen," Astrid whispers. "So very sorry. Maro- He said if I gave you to them, he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone forever. I was such a fool. All of this is my fault. I nearly killed you and everyone else." Astrid's glazed eyes flick to Arnbjorn. "I almost killed my husband."

At those words, Arnbjorn lets out a choking sob. "But you didn't..."

"'Almost' is bad enough," Astrid says, and then turns her eyes back to Lumen. "I just wanted things to stay the way they were. Before Cicero, before the Night Mother. Before _you_. But- you're alive and there's still a chance to start over."

"What do you mean?" Lumen asks, her voice shaking.

"I prayed to the Night Mother. I am the Black Sacrament." Astrid tells her. "Cicero was right. The Night Mother was right. The old ways have guided us for centuries, and I was a fool to oppose them. So I've prayed for a contract." Astrid gasps again, the fluid rattling in her lungs growing thicker. A sign that she doesn't have much time left. "You are to lead this family now. Take my blade, the Blade of Woe, and kill me."

"No!" Arnbjorn pleads. "Please- Astrid-" He gently caresses her where her beautiful blonde hair used to be, but now all that's left is charred, flakes of skin. "Don't leave me."

"There's no coming back from this, Arn," she whispers, trying to smile at her husband. "The pain is fading, but-" another bubbling gasp. "I'm drowning- in my own blood. I will die either way, but I'd like to die with a little dignity."

"Arnbjorn," Lumen says softly, picking up the Blade of Woe. Unable to find any delight in the death she's about to deliver. "She's suffering."

Arnbjorn shudders, overwhelmed with grief, but not so much that he would selflessly keep his wife alive to endure more pain. He nods at Lumen's words, leaning down to kiss Astrid and whisper his quiet goodbyes. Then he presses his forehead against hers, and after a few futile gasps to quiet his sobs, he says, "Do it."

At his command, Lumen ends Astrid's suffering as quickly and painlessly as she knows how; a stab to the heart, just under the ribs and aimed to sever the ventricles. Within the span of a few seconds, Astrid breathes her last, and Arnbjorn is given yet another reason to despise Lumen. His wife may have named her the new leader of the Dark Brotherhood, but Lumen doubts that means anything to him right now.

"We'll be outside," Lumen whispers, standing up and hoping he can't smell her fear. She ushers the remaining assassins outside to give Arnbjorn some time to mourn, to give everyone a breath of fresh air, and to put as much space between herself and Arnbjorn as she possibly can. Knowing damn well that whatever happens between them next is _not_ going to be good. With his wife dead, Arnbjorn is a lone wolf with nothing left to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder how many of you are surprised to see Arnbjorn alive? I'm sure some of you saw it coming! I've got some pretty insightful readers, if I do say so myself. ;) I seriously debated on what to do, but in the end, I wanted to whomp on him just a little bit more. I'll admit that I got kind of wibbly when I was writing the part between him and Astrid…
> 
> Up next: Arnbjorn deals with his guilt and grief (poorly), Lumen and Cicero have a much needed talk, and the remaining Brotherhood members seek a new home… and vengeance.
> 
> As always, I want to thank my friend Heiwako for her tireless efforts to improve my writing.


	14. Remnants and Ruins

Once outside the ravaged Sanctuary, Lumen steps away from the others. Nazir calls for her, but she ignores him and continues walking away. She will apologize for her rudeness later. Right now, what she needs most is to be away from everyone for a few moments. Just a few, blessed moments alone to collect her thoughts. To think on everything the Night Mother told her, to process what Astrid said to her, and finally to attempt to deal with the overwhelming pain of loss that threatens to suffocate her. She never expected to care about anyone within the Brotherhood. It started out as nothing more than a job. But little by little, the group of assassins gradually became her family and losing them hurts more than she ever imagined.

Most of the fires started by the Penitus Oculatus agents have burned down to ash, and the smoke has dissipated enough to allow the light of the twin moons to break through the forest canopy. Other than a few tendrils of smoke rising above the trees, it would be impossible for anyone in Falkreath to know anything is amiss - and she'll have to make sure it stays that way. The dead soldiers would need to be cleared from the path to avoid grabbing the attention of any passersby on their way to or from Falkreath. The last thing the Brotherhood needs is to have guards snooping around while they try to move Mother. And just how long would that take? The coffin weighs a ton, and they will need to salvage whatever supplies they can from their beleaguered home, and then go… _Where_?

The Brotherhood will have to leave Falkreath behind. Even if the Sanctuary hadn't been compromised, it is little more than a tomb for their fallen siblings now. Mother needs a new home and so does her broken family. That's assuming the others actually accept her as their leader, and they may not, even though Astrid named her as such before she died.

Lumen's fingers tighten around the hilt of the Blade of Woe when she thinks of Astrid. She had not been very fond of Astrid toward the end, but she never thought it would come to this. She never thought she'd have to kill the woman, or that she'd come home to find her siblings bloodied, broken bodies strewn across their home. She closes her eyes tight when her vision blurs, refusing to let the tears fall. Because she knows if she starts crying now, she won't be able to stop. And it wouldn't do to fall apart now. Not with so much to be done.

"Lumen?"

Cicero's voice startles her out of her brooding. She'd been so lost in her own thoughts, she almost forgot there was anyone else nearby. She should be ashamed, really. Here she is wallowing in her own self-pity while Cicero is standing beside her, his eyes wide with concern as he nervously wrings his hat in his hands. His face is dirty with ash, blood and sweat. Cicero has now seen three Sanctuaries fall, and yet here he is pulling Lumen away from edge of despair.

To her silence, he says, "Cicero helped Nazir take Festus down from the tree. Dearest Babette was- well, understandably upset when she saw him like that."

"Good," she says weakly. "Sorry I walked away, I just-" she waves her hand in the air, grasping for the right words and finding none.

"You needed to think," he says. "Cicero does understand. But Nazir and Babette are waiting on your instruction. You are the rightful leader of the Dark Brotherhood, and your family needs you."

"I'm no leader," she murmurs. "I don't know _how_ to lead."

"That is not true," Cicero says, his sharp, fixed smile softening into something more real. "You are very bossy at times- most of the time, actually. You will have absolutely no trouble telling everyone what to do."

Lumen breathes a soft laugh, feeling something loosen in her chest when she does. "Thanks," she says without an ounce of her usual acerbity. After cleaning the Blade of Woe on the armor of a fallen Penitus Oculatus agent, Lumen tucks the knife in her belt and turns to walk back to the others with Cicero in tow.

"So, what now?" Nazir asks as she nears. "Is this the end for us?"

"It doesn't have to be," Lumen says, nervously running a hand through her filthy hair. "The Night Mother was unusually chatty tonight."

Cicero gasps, his manic smile growing wide at the news. "What did Mother say?"

"She wants me to speak with Amaund Motierre once more," Lumen tells them. "The contract is still on. We're still going to assassinate the true emperor."

Cicero squeaks excitedly, but Babette doesn't seem to share his enthusiasm. "How are we supposed to accomplish that?" the little vampire asks. "The plan is ruined and everyone is _gone_."

"There's the four of us, and-" Lumen pauses, not wishing to speak of Arnbjorn just yet. "If you want to leave the Brotherhood behind, I understand. What happened here tonight was terrible, and I don't blame you if you want to start a new life. But-" Despite her exhaustion and heartache, Lumen feels more certain of herself at this moment than she ever has at any other point in her life. She stands up a little straighter, her voice a little louder when she says, "The Night Mother still watches over us, and as long as I still breathe, I'll see to it that her will is done. The Dark Brotherhood is going to kill the Emperor of Tamriel, and we're going to fucking _slaughter_ Commander Maro."

"I'm too old and set in my ways to start a new life," Babette says, chancing a smile. "I go where you go, Listener."

"The Dark Brotherhood is my life, I'm not going to leave now," Nazir says. "But we can't stay here."

"Dawnstar," Cicero breathes. "There's a Sanctuary in Dawnstar! We could move there!"

"That's what we're going to do," Lumen says. "But first we-" her words are cut off when the Black Door opens with such force the metal door slams against the stone wall of the alcove.

Arnbjorn stumbles outside, appearing more feral than usual with his shoulders hunched forward and his hair disheveled from repeatedly running his hands through it. His face is obscured in shadow, but in a flash of moonlight, Lumen can see his eyes; bloodshot from grieving, wide with fury, and fixated right on her. For a moment the forest is still. No one knowing what to say, and knowing that whatever they do say will only incite his wrath. Lumen takes a step nearer to Cicero, and her movement triggers Arnbjorn's predatory reflexes like a fleeing rabbit would entice a wolf into pursuit.

" _You_ ," he snarls.

And then he is on her, heedless of the cries of their siblings and completely mindless with rage. He grabs her shoulder with one hand and wraps the other around her neck as he shoves her hard against the dirt slope of the grotto. Unearthed roots and rocks dig into Lumen's back, and she cries out in both shock and pain. She reaches for her dagger, but Arnbjorn squeezes her neck tighter and says, "Don't even think about it."

"Stop!" Babette yells, her hands knotting in her tattered dress. "Please don't fight!"

Cicero draws his ebony blade and presses the tip of the dagger against the side of Arnbjorn's throat. "Let her go, sheepdog," he says, his voice so low and rough that Lumen scarcely recognizes it.

Nazir edges closer, and the sound of the Redguard drawing his sword from its sheath is what finally grabs Arnbjorn's attention. "I don't know what's going on between you three, and I honestly don't care. But I won't let you kill the Listener and I would rather not kill you, Arnbjorn," Nazir says, his voice deceptively calm. "So let her go, brother."

Slowly, Arnbjorn releases his hold on her, and Lumen's legs fold beneath her as she gasps for air. Her throat burns and her head swims, and she's only distantly aware of Cicero crouching at her side, whispering, begging, _pleading_ for a command. "Just tell Cicero what to do, tell him to end the sheepdog's miserable life and he will."

"No," she gasps, her voice strained. "You are not to kill him. _No one_ is to kill him."

Arnbjorn stumbles away from his siblings. Lost, broken, and practically drowning in the cold, crush of grief. Finally he turns to face them, his gaze falling on Lumen once again. "This is your fault!" he bellows, waving a hand at the destruction all around them. "All of it! Everyone is dead because of you!"

"How do you figure?" Lumen snaps, her voice finally coming back to her. "Astrid sold us out! She betrayed the Brotherhood, not me! You were _right there_ when she admitted it, so don't you dare pretend otherwise!"

Arnbjorn shakes his head, clearly unable to think of anything that would excuse his wife's behavior. "Astrid betrayed the Brotherhood because of you, and I betrayed her because of you!" He takes a breath, his voice low and tremulous when he says, "There is nothing I regret more than the day we brought you into our family."

Cicero helps Lumen to her feet, while Nazir sheathes his sword. He and Babette share a confused look, and the little vampire asks, "How exactly did you betray Astrid?"

"I was unfaithful," Arnbjorn admits, narrowing his eyes at Lumen. But then he looks away from her, wiping sweat from his brow. "And I didn't even get the chance to tell her what I had done."

Babette raises her brows in interest, but says nothing as she looks from Lumen to Arnbjorn. Even Nazir seems surprised. Lumen inwardly groans, she never wanted anyone in the Brotherhood to know anything untoward had happened between her and Arnbjorn.

"And what good would that have done?" Cicero asks, his hand gently resting on Lumen's shoulder, unwilling to move away from her in case Arnbjorn strikes again. "You confess thinking it will alleviate your guilt, when all it does it hurt her more than keeping it a secret ever would. What Astrid did not know certainly was not hurting her."

"Don't," Arnbjorn snaps. "Don't even talk to me, clown. I-" he gasps, doubling over and clutching at his stomach. "I hope you're happy, elf. You finally got what you wanted. The Brotherhood is yours."

"I never wanted _this_ to happen!" Lumen snaps, needing Arnbjorn to believe her, but uncertain as to why. She steps closer to him, careless in her anger. "Do you really think I wanted see my family butchered? Do you honestly think I wanted Astrid to die? I was content to Listen, and let her lead as she had always done."

He shakes his head, his hands resting upon his knees. "You owe me more than your lies," he says roughly.

"I'm not lying!" she says, her voice rising in pitch. Cicero's grip on her shoulder tightens, and for a moment she isn't sure if he's offering support or wishing to silence her. But when she sees Arnbjorn's nails growing longer and sharper and his ears extending into furred tips, she realizes Cicero is trying to pull her away from him. Fear washes over her when she glances up at the two full moons in the night sky. If Arnbjorn is unreasonable now, he'll be _unreachable_ when he transforms.

Arnbjorn stumbles away from the broken remnants of his family, groaning in pain as his bones begin to snap and lengthen. The groan morphs into a scream, then a _howl_ when his flesh tears and regrows within a matter of seconds. His armor rips as his body outgrows it, and a thick coat of white hair sprouts across his bare flesh.

"The sheepdog is not going to eat us, is he?" Cicero asks, clearly unnerved by the sight of Arnbjorn's body breaking and reshaping before their eyes.

"Hard to say at this point," Babette says. "Walk to the Sanctuary, but do it _slowly_. You should never run from one of Hircine's, it attracts their attention."

"Good to know," Lumen breathes, and the group moves slowly toward the Black Door, slipping inside while Arnbjorn is still in the throes of an agonizing transformation.

Nazir pulls the heavy door closed. "Since we're stuck in here, we may as well get to work," he says. "We have siblings to lay to rest before we do anything else."

* * *

A day has passed since the destruction of the Falkreath Sanctuary. The group of assassins had laid their fallen siblings to rest, and then proceeded to salvage what supplies they could. When it came time to venture outside, no one had been eager to be the first to leave the relative safety of the Sanctuary, fearing an angry werewolf might be waiting for them. But on the other side of the Black Door, there was no trace of Arnbjorn except for the tattered remains of his shrouded armor.

Moving the Night Mother's coffin had been an arduous task, but Cicero, Nazir and Lumen eventually got the heavy sarcophagus out of the Sanctuary and loaded onto a wagon. Lumen's horse, Felix, had been easy to hitch to the wagon, but Shadowmere had been another story. With Lucien's help, Lumen managed to convince the horse to cooperate, and now the group is on their way through Riverwood.

Nazir slows the wagon to a stop just on the edge of town, near a stonework bridge that will take them across the White River and north to Whiterun. Babette lightly dozes against his shoulder, her tiny form hidden beneath a thick cloak to protect her from the sunlight.

Lumen hops off the back of the wagon; a satchel of gold hanging heavy at her hip, and a supply list in hand. "So who wants to go with me?"

"I'll stay here with Babette and the Night Mother if you don't mind. I'm too tired to haggle with any shopkeepers," Nazir says. He'd offered to steer the wagon so the others could nap on the way to Riverwood. Lumen is still tired from not sleeping well, but Cicero is positively bursting with energy. Apparently the Imperial didn't require much sleep at all.

"I don't mind," Lumen answers. "Come on, Cicero. We're going shopping."

"Ooh!" Cicero leaps off the wagon and lands beside Lumen. "Cicero _loves_ shopping. He especially loves shopping for new shoes! Actually, Cicero could use some new boots..."

"Your boots are fine," Lumen says, glancing down at Cicero's feet as they walk into the town.

"They're dingy and stained," he says, sticking his bottom lip out in a mock pout. "Skyrim is nothing but mud and dirt roads, unlike Cyrodiil where the streets are properly paved and maintained."

Lumen shakes her head, electing not to debate with Cicero about shoes of all things. Instead, she grabs him by the wrist and steers him toward the Sleeping Giant Inn. "Wait- let's go in here before we go by the Trader," she says.

Cicero doesn't resist, and once they are inside the inn he grins at her and says, "Is sweet Lumen so eager to get Cicero into a bed?"

"What? No! I mean- not _no_ , but-" Lumen huffs, and Cicero laughs at how flustered she is. "That's not why we're here."

"It's not? Well that is a little disappointing," Cicero says, and glances around the inn, which is mostly empty aside from the bartender and a bard who seems more interested in writing a letter than strumming his lute.

Lumen knows she's blushing like an idiot. She doesn't really know how to deal with Cicero ever since she read his journals. He cares about her, Sithis knows why, but it's freaking her out. And the fact that she cares for him frightens her even more, and it's not something she wants to think about. It's just easier to ignore her emotions rather than face them. Even if it's getting rather difficult to do so lately.

The Nord bartender looks up from his book and to Lumen when she approaches the counter. "How can I help you? We got food, drink, and empty rooms," he says gruffly.

"I need to talk to Delphine," Lumen says, looking around and seeing no sign of the Breton. "Is she here?"

"Nope."

"Er, do you know when she'll be back?" Lumen asks.

"Nope," he says again, glancing back down at his book.

Lumen growls in frustration. "If she's not here then why in the Void did she ask me to come speak with her? She said it was important!"

The Bartender glares at her now. "I don't make it my business to know her business. Wait- are you Lumen? She said a foul-tempered Wood Elf might come skulking around, but she didn't have much hope for it."

Cicero cackles at that. "Sweet Lumen would not be so foul-tempered if she'd let Cicero take her to bed."

Lumen takes a deep breath, quelling the urge to throttle Cicero in the middle of the inn. "Yes," she says stiffly, hoping to speak over Cicero's blabbering. "I'm Lumen."

"Delphine left a week ago with some old codger and one of the local hunters. She didn't say much, just that she was leaving the inn to me. She left a letter for you, though," the bartender says as he produces a folded up letter from his pocket. "And no, I didn't read it."

"I would even pay for the room! Oh, yes, humble Cicero has always been a gentleman," Cicero purrs. "Yes, yes, Cicero will wine and dine his sweet Lumen before bending her over a table and-"

"Would you _please_ stop that?" Lumen snaps, swatting at him and missing when he dances out of the way. With her letter from Delphine in hand, she turns away from the amused bartender, muttering a 'thank you' as she follows after Cicero.

Cicero grins at her, careful to stay well out of reach as they exit the inn. "Stop what?"

"Stop being a shit," Lumen says, unable to keep from smiling. Even if she doesn't know what to do with her feelings regarding him, that damn jester can always get a smile out of her.

"Cicero cannot make any promises, but he will try," he says, seemingly pleased to see a smile on her face. "So what does the letter say?"

Lumen leans against the wood railing of the inn's porch and flips the letter open, frowning as she reads it. "It says she's gone to some place called Karthspire and she wants me to meet her there."

"You do not seem very excited," Cicero says, leaning beside her and peering at the letter.

"I'm not," she says. "Karthspire is in the Reach. That place gives me the creeps."

"Something gives _you_ 'the creeps'?" Cicero asks, chuckling in amusement.

"The Reach certainly does," Lumen says, folding the letter. "The hills have eyes."

"You are talking about the Forsworn, yes? They're not so scary," he says with an indignant sniff.

"I just don't like being watched," she explains, beckoning for Cicero to follow her to the Riverwood Trader. "Or worse- _hunted._ " Lumen waves her hand, dismissing the subject. "Anyway, I'll worry about that later. Right now I'm more concerned with getting Mother settled and finishing our contract."

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time Cicero and Lumen returned to the wagon with supplies. After noticing how exhausted her companions were, Lumen decided to make camp by the riverside. Nazir and Babette are sleeping in their respective tents while Cicero and Lumen keep watch, not that they really need to with Lucien drifting along the edges of their small campsite.

"Explain to Cicero how it's 'not necessary' for him to get a new pair of boots, but purchasing wine for yourself is?" Cicero asks, as he sits in the grass and leans his back against the wheel of the wagon.

"It's necessary if I am to stay in a good mood," Lumen says dryly, settling beside him. "Besides the wine is only, what- seven gold? Not the seven _hundred_ gold it would cost to buy you some fancy new boots."

Cicero bumps Lumen's shoulder with his own in response, and they both fall silent. Content to watch the torchbugs flicker across the shimmering surface of the river as evening slowly fades to dusk. Lumen glances over her shoulder toward the tents of her sleeping companions, then back to the river. She shifts around in the grass, tucking her legs beneath her, before feeling restless only a few seconds later and stretching them out in front of her. It's only when she begins fussing with the buckles on her boots that she catches Cicero staring at her.

"What?" she asks.

"You are driving Cicero crazy with all your fidgeting," he says, and Lumen would take it for a complaint if not for the soft look in his eyes. His hand cautiously trails along her shoulders, and when she doesn't shrug him off, he gently squeezes the muscle between her neck and shoulder.

Lumen sighs as Cicero's nimble fingers work the tense muscle and melt away weeks of pent-up tension. "By the Eight, that feels _wonderful_ ," she says. "You're really good at this."

"So are you going to tell Cicero what's on your mind? You seem rather nervous." Cicero repositions himself so that he sits behind her, both hands now sliding across her shoulders and working the knots out of her muscles.

"Do I?" she asks, which is a stupid question because she _is_ nervous.

"Are you worried the sheepdog may be hunting us?" he asks, brushing her hair aside to give him better access to her neck. "Cicero has not seen hide nor hair of the beast since we left Falkreath. He's likely gone somewhere to lick his wounds. Perhaps he'll go back to his other family."

"His other family?" Lumen asks, glancing over her shoulder at Cicero. "What do you mean?"

"You really don't know?"

"Arnbjorn and I never spoke much," Lumen says, growing impatient. "Just tell me."

"Before I left Falkreath, Veezara told me the sheepdog used to be a Companion. You know, the group of warriors based in Whiterun? He left them well over fifteen years ago and joined the Brotherhood."

"I'm having a difficult time picturing him rescuing Khajiit kittens from trees." Lumen smiles a bit at the thought, but then her smile fades and she says, "I'm not worried about him. I don't think he would stalk us from the shadows. He would challenge me head-on, just as he did back in Falkreath."

"All right, so if you're not worried about the sheepdog, then what is it?" Cicero's fingers leave her neck to rub soothing circles across the sore muscles between her shoulder blades.

"I have plenty of reasons to be nervous," she says. However, the responsibility of seeing her family and Mother to a safe Sanctuary, killing the Emperor of Tamriel, and hunting down Commander Maro all seem like simple tasks compared to what is _really_ bothering her. "But I suppose you want a specific answer."

"Specifics would be helpful," Cicero says, his voice taking on a hard edge, signaling his impatience.

"It's you."

His hands still and then pull away from her back. " _Me_? What did poor Cicero do?"

Lumen turns around to face him. "I suppose I have a bit of a confession to make," she says, knotting her fingers in her hair. "I, um- after I left you in Dawnstar I came back to Falkreath and I- well, I read your journals." Even though she is facing him, she is unable to meet his gaze. Fearing he may react poorly to having his privacy invaded. "Sorry."

"I see," he says slowly. "So why-"

"Because I missed you, damn it!" she snaps, not wishing to be interrogated and figuring she may as well throw caution to the wind and just _say_ it. So what if she had a stupid, sentimental moment after she left him in Dawnstar? He shouldn't have left those journals lying around if he didn't want them to be read! But to her surprise Cicero is chuckling, his fingers gently touching her jaw and coaxing her to look at him.

A peculiar, little smile graces his lips. "Cicero was going to ask why you are still nervous. You read my journals, so you know where I stand. If anything, Cicero should be the nervous one."

"Are you?"

"No," he says, lifting a brow. "Should I be?"

She swallows, not knowing how to answer that question. "What- um, what exactly do you want from me?" she asks, because she truly doesn't know. It started out so simple, like so many of her flings in the past; a mutual attraction that eventually lead to sex and nothing more. But now Cicero might want more, and that ambiguous _more_ is making things incredibly complicated.

Cicero shrugs, and he's so bloody nonchalant Lumen wonders if he's joking. But his words are too soft and sincere to be anything but the truth when he says, "I want nothing more than what you are willing to give."

Lumen doesn't know what to say, and she knows her words would be uncertain half-truths spoken in a trembling, terrified voice. Which is ridiculous when she thinks about it. She's faced draugr and dragons, and yet this strange, warmth blooming within her chest scares her more than anything. And the cause of such a feeling is staring into her eyes, and staring _through_ her, as he so often does. This insufferable, sweet, madman with an impressive capacity for violence has stirred something inside her. Rousing emotions she thought herself incapable of having, and it's _too much_. It's too emotional, too fast. It's so much easier when it's just physical.

But rather than running away as she is wont to do, she surges forward, capturing his lips so roughly that she shoves him back against the wagon wheel. Cicero doesn't seem to care at all, and he responds to the kiss with equal ferocity. He grabs her arms, hands squeezing her so tight it's almost painful, but Lumen understands his silent plea of _don't run away_. And she answers it by sliding her palms along his thighs, feeling lean muscle beneath his trousers as her hands travel from his knees to the hem of his jacket.

"There's an empty tent if you two need it," Babette says, and Lumen reluctantly turns away from Cicero to see the vampire grinning at them, her old eyes sparkling with mirth. "Just try to keep the moaning to a minimum, Nazir is a bit of a prude."

"Sorry, Babette," Lumen says, laughing nervously. "I didn't hear you approach."

"Most people don't." Babette smoothes down her skirt and primly sits on a nearby rock. "So you and Cicero? I can't say I am surprised. Many Listeners and Keepers in the past were involved with each other. Although-" she pauses meaningfully, grinning wide enough to show fangs. "I do wonder how you got involved with Arnbjorn? Oh, don't look at me like that. Something very interesting happened between you two, and I want to know all about it."

"Not to be rude, but I really don't want to talk about it." Lumen closes her eyes, annoyed as a cold flush of disgust chases away the residual heat of Cicero's touch.

"No one ever tells me _anything_ ," Babette says, folding her arms and sulking.

"Do not feel bad, un-child. She will not share any details with Cicero either," he says, sounding every bit as petulant as Babette.

"Ugh, you two are insufferable." Lumen stands, dusting grass and dirt from her clothes. "I think I'm going to make use of that empty tent I'm- tired," she says, knowing both Cicero and Babette will see right through her flimsy excuse to escape the conversation, and not caring in the slightest.

"Oh, all right," Babette sighs. "Sleep well."

Lumen makes her way across the small campsite with Cicero following behind her. When she reaches the tent she takes a breath and turns around to face him, prepared to tell him to _go away_ if he followed her in order to pester her about Arnbjorn. But her words falter when she sees that his brows are knit together in concern, and his eyes clouded with worry.

"Cicero knows you don't want to talk about it, and he will not force you to," he says abruptly. "But do me a favor and answer one question, and I will never speak of this again."

"Fine," Lumen snaps, and folds her arms across her chest. "What is it?"

"Did the brute hurt you?"

Lumen is taken aback by the question. If she truly wanted to elaborate, she would tell Cicero that it's not Arnbjorn's actions that haunt her, but her own. Regret is not something Lumen often struggles with. In fact, out of all the terrible things she's done, this is the first time she's ever felt truly _guilty_. "No," she finally says. "He didn't hurt me."

Cicero is silent as he searches her face for any hint of a lie. After a moment he nods and says, "Good. I was-"

"Worried?" Lumen suggests, grinning at Cicero and hoping to lighten the mood. "Gods forbid you take any time off from your favorite hobby of worrying."

A soft, indignant _humph_ is the only response Cicero gives as he follows her into the tent.

* * *

"What do you mean you can't enter Whiterun?" Nazir asks, incredulous. "Did you get banned from the city?"

"No, I did not get banned from the city," Lumen says as their wagon slows to a stop just outside the Whiterun Stables. "I'm a thane."

"You," Nazir says slowly, "are the Thane of Whiterun?"

"What is a thane?" Cicero asks, as confused by Nordic customs and titles as Lumen was when she first arrived in Skyrim.

"It's an honorary title, mainly. Nothing more than a pat on the ass from the Jarl as thanks for killing a dragon and saving the city." Lumen folds her arms, glaring up at the silhouette of Dragonsreach. "Gold would have been preferable to a title and a housecarl. That bastard dragon singed my hair!"

"What in the Void is a housecarl?" Cicero asks, increasingly confused.

"A bodyguard," Lumen answers, then turns back to Nazir. "Anyway, considering the nature of the conversation we'll be having with Motierre, I can't risk being recognized and drawing unnecessary attention to him."

"I'll go." Nazir shrugs, climbing down from the seat of the wagon. "Astrid often had me speak to clients on her behalf. I'm used to it." The Redguard dusts the dirt of the road from his clothes and says, "I just need to know what this Motierre fellow looks like."

"A stuffy Breton," Lumen says blithely, "He'll be dressed in fine clothes and he'll probably have a pinched look on his face."

"Pinched?"

"Yeah, you know, he looks like he's got a Briar Heart shoved up his ass."

"That's- descriptive." Nazir says, shaking his head. "All right, you three behave yourselves while I'm gone. We don't have enough gold to pay off any bounties just yet."

"As if Cicero would ever behave poorly in front of Mother. Cicero is always good and always behaves," he says, patting the coffin, which is wrapped in a leather tarp to protect it from the elements and hide it from view.

"That's pushing it a bit," Lumen murmurs, only to have Cicero ignore her comment in favor of fawning over the Night Mother. She watches Nazir walk up the dirt path toward Whiterun, eventually vanishing from view once he passes the ramparts. Deciding that they will probably be waiting for a while, Lumen climbs down from her seat in the wagon to see to the horses.

"Hey," Babette says, her voice thick with sleep. "Why is Nazir coming back so soon?"

"What?" Lumen turns to see Nazir walking briskly towards them. "Well that was quick."

"They won't let me in to the city. Apparently they've had some trouble with Alik'r warriors, and they think I'm one of them," Nazir says, looking down at his clothes. "I guess I can't blame them."

"Great," Lumen sighs. "I guess that means I have no choice but to go myself."

Babette pushes her cloak from her shoulders, finally perking up now that the sun is setting. "But you said it yourself, we can't risk drawing any attention to Motierre."

"Cicero will go and speak to Motierre!"

The group falls silent, all turning to stare at the grinning jester. "Assuming they let you into the city, you will definitely draw attention to Motierre if you go dressed like _that_ ," Nazir says.

"What is wrong with how Cicero is dressed?" He puts his hands on his hips, frowning at Nazir.

"Nothing," Lumen says quickly. "There's nothing wrong with your outfit, Cicero. It's just very eye-catching. If you want to speak to Motierre, then you need to wear a disguise."

Cicero cheers up at the mention of a disguise. "Oh, very well, then. What sort of disguise shall Cicero wear? What role is he to play?"

"I'll go with you," Babette says, looking a bit nervous at the prospect of Cicero going to speak to a client without supervision. "I doubt the guards would turn away a father and his child seeking room and board for the night."

Cicero cackles at that. "Oh, very good! Very good! Cicero likes this idea!" he says, and all seems to be going well until he spares a glance at the clothes Lumen hands him. "This is it? This plain, boring white shirt and ugly trousers? How insulting! How could you expect poor Cicero to wear such dowdy clothes?"

Nazir mutters something under his breath, and Lumen says, "You need to look plain and boring so no one will pay attention to you. That's the idea!"

"If you say so," he sighs, carefully removing his gloves and boots, and then handing them to Lumen. Then he removes his jacket and trousers, not bothering to duck behind the wagon or shield himself from view.

"By Sithis, I did not need to see that," Nazir grumbles, squeezing his eyes shut.

Cicero quickly dresses, somehow managing to keep his hat in place, even when he pulls the tunic over his head. "Well?" he asks. "How do I look? Dull? Utterly mundane?"

"You're almost perfect." Lumen holds her hand out. "Come on, give me the hat."

"No! Cicero must- uh, he must hold on to it, yes? For good luck. It is his lucky hat."

"Cicero, you need to leave it with me." Lumen says slowly. She should've known him parting with the hat would be an issue.

Cicero narrows his eyes at Lumen. "What does Cicero get if he does? Cicero is not going to give his hat away and receive nothing in return!"

"I'm going to give it back to you! I'm not going to keep it!"

"Could we hurry this up, please?" Nazir snaps.

Lumen sighs. "Fine, fine. Cicero, what do you want?"

"New boots."

"What?"

"You heard me! I want new boots!"

"Fine!"

Cicero squeaks. "Really? Sweet, kind, generous Lumen will buy Cicero a shiny, new pair of boots?"

"Oh, for the love of- _yes_! Just give me your hat!" Lumen growls, her patience finally at an end.

"Okay," he says, pulling his hat off and reluctantly handing it to her. "Cicero trusts you to take care of his hat… And to make good on our deal."

"Yeah, yeah," Lumen waves him off. "Hurry up before I change my mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up - updates might be a little slower than usual for the next couple months. I have a lot of responsibilities that are dragging me away from writing. Thank you all for being so patient with me!


	15. Hail Sithis!

The Whiterun guards open the gates for Babette and Cicero, blissfully oblivious to the fact that they just let two seasoned assassin waltz into their city. _"Fools,"_ Babette thinks, even though she is used to being overlooked. No one ever views her as a threat until it's too late, but she doesn't mind. It makes her job as an assassin that much easier. Although there are times when she does wish she wasn't trapped in the body of a child. As old as she is, there are so many experiences she's missed out on.

Babette always regarded the notion of romantic love as a folly of youth. She had loved once. The object of her affection, while younger than her by centuries, had the body of a grown man. And so she kept her feelings to herself. There was no reason to bare her soul to someone who wouldn't, _who couldn't_ , return her affections. Over time it became easier to close herself off to such feelings and in a way, she's glad to be spared from the heartache of love. Lovers are all destined for pain. It doesn't matter how happy they are, or how in love they are, or how long they are together. One will inevitably leave the other. If living near the Falkreath's graveyard taught her anything, it's that the happiest of unions always end in tears.

Even if Babette did not engage in such foolishness, she is still curious about the relationships of those around her. She isn't terribly surprised about Cicero and Lumen being involved, but the addition of Arnbjorn has her intrigued. The passion between Arnbjorn and Astrid had definitely cooled over time, but she never thought Arnbjorn would actually stray from his wife's side. It's obvious that things between him and Lumen didn't go well, and she wants _details_. Unfortunately, the Listener is being rather tight-lipped about the incident, which only adds to Babette's curiosity.

"Where oh where could Motierre be?" Cicero murmurs, more to himself than to Babette. But his voice pulls her out of her musings and back to the mission at hand. "Sweet Lumen's description was a little _lacking_..."

She looks around the crowded room hoping to see a clue that will lead them to their client. "Just look for a finely dressed Breton- or _that_." She tugs on Cicero's sleeve, motioning to the far side of the room where a stern looking man in Imperial armor is standing in front of a set of double doors.

"He certainly stands out." Cicero grins, then takes Babette by the hand and leads her through the boisterous crowd. "Hello, hello," he says, drawing closer to the man. "We have some unfinished business with Amaund Motierre, do you know where he might be?"

The armored man looks Cicero up and down, before turning his gaze on Babette. She smiles at him, her fangs fully on display, and it's a struggle to not laugh at how unsettled he looks. He turns his attention back to Cicero, and while the redhead's smile isn't as razor sharp as her own, it's just as deadly. The man can see them for _what_ they are, and wisely, he pulls the door open, allowing the two assassins inside the small room.

"Rexus? What is it?" Motierre looks up from his dinner, his lips pursed as if he'd just eaten something foul. "I do not wish to be- um, disturbed." His voice wavers when he takes notice of Cicero and Babette.

"I take it back. The Listener's description wasn't lacking at all," Cicero says with some amusement. He steps closer to Motierre, placing his hand on the table and leaning down so that he is looming over the seated man. "We have some unfinished business, Motierre. Sithis is due a soul."

Motierre's jaw drops. "By the gods- you're one of _them_. But I thought-" the blood seems to drain from his face upon realizing he's nose-to-nose with an assassin. "Your Sanctuary- please, you mustn't think I had anything to do with that nasty business. I wanted the emperor dead, and I still do! Maro-"

"If we thought you were responsible, you would be dead." Cicero's voice cuts through the man's babbling. "And we are not here to kill you. Oh, goodness no. But we do want to kill _someone_. So just tell us where we can find the true emperor, and we'll be on our way."

Motierre gasps, the fear beginning to drain from his features. "You mean after everything that's transpired, the Dark Brotherhood will still honor the contract?"

"Of course," Cicero purrs, his voice pitched into what he probably thinks is a soothing tone, but Babette can see that it's having the opposite effect on Motierre's taciturn companion. "The emperor is as good as dead. All you need to do is tell sweet Cicero where he is hiding."

If Motierre is put off by Cicero slipping into third-person speech, he doesn't let it show. Instead, the knowledge that the Brotherhood still plans to honor the contract has him smiling as maniacally as Cicero. "Oh this is good news! Wonderful news! Yes, the emperor is still in Skyrim, but not for long. He's on his ship, the Katariah, which is moored in the Solitude inlet."

Cicero says nothing more to Motierre. He just turns away from the man, looking as smug as Babette has ever seen him, and leaves the room with the little vampire in tow. When they step outside the Bannered Mare and into the brisk, evening air, Cicero turns to her and says, "It looks like Cicero did not need dearest Babette's supervision after all."

Despite her annoyance at being so transparent, she grins at Cicero. "Come on, Keeper," she says. "Let's go tell the others the good news."

* * *

The aurora flickers wildly overhead. It, along with the waning, twin moons, cast so much light upon the road that torches are not necessary. The moths that would normally hover around their torches are instead fluttering around the luminous form of Lucien Lachance, much to the ghost's irritation. The group of assassins have been traveling in relative silence for a long time. There is no sound save for the creaking of wheels, the clopping of hooves, and the occasional, broken tune from Cicero. When Cicero and Babette returned to the wagon, and told Nazir and Lumen the news, they set off toward Dawnstar immediately, all in agreement that they would not stop to rest until Mother was settled and safe. But Lumen doesn't think she will truly rest until Emperor Titus Mede II and Commander Maro are sent to the Void.

An errant breeze stirs Lumen's hair, and she tugs her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Nights in The Pale are dreadfully cold, but there is an added chill in the air. Lumen and Cicero have spent most of the journey sitting in the back of the wagon, next to the Night Mother's coffin. Mother usually radiates an aura of supernatural warmth, and even when Mother is not speaking, there is always the sound of a distant heartbeat. But ever since they left Falkreath there has been nothing. No words, not that Lumen is surprised, but no heartbeat or warmth.

The Night Mother's silence is so profound it drowns out the sound of the night and chills Lumen to the bone. She's afraid that something has gone wrong, but she doesn't know what, and she's too afraid to tell Cicero that she can't hear or feel Mother anymore. All she can do is hope that Mother will see fit to speak with her again once the emperor is dead.

Cicero scoots across the bench in the back of the wagon, pressing his shoulder against Lumen's. "Cicero wants to thank you for trusting him to speak with Motierre. It was very exciting to meet with such an important client. It has been years since Cicero has done anything like that."

"You're welcome," she murmurs as Cicero rests his head on her shoulder. She's becoming more accustomed to the madman's affectionate ways, and if she's honest, the extra warmth is certainly welcome at this point. "Did you often speak with clients in the past? You didn't mention that in your journals..."

"Well, the kill is usually more memorable than the client, yes?" Cicero tilts his head so he can grin up at her. "I did not speak with clients with the regularity of a Speaker, but it was necessary to do so when my brothers and sisters began dying and disappearing."

"Cicero, um-" Lumen hesitates. The mention of his ill-fated past siblings reminds her that she needs to tell him what she knows about the fall of the Sanctuaries. Now doesn't seem like the best time to tell him that the Dark Brotherhood was betrayed by one of their own considering what Astrid had just done. Then again, there's never a 'good time' to deliver bad news. Cicero has given up so much of his life and his mind for the Brotherhood, and yet he's still with them. Anyone else would've walked away by now. After everything he's been through, he deserves to know the truth. "I have something important I need to tell you. I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now…"

He pulls away just enough to look her in the eyes, and Lumen is rendered speechless by the look of terror etched across his face. "Sweet Lumen is not _with child_ , is she?" he asks, and he looks so terrified by the prospect that Lumen is certain he would leap from the moving wagon and run for the hills if she said yes.

Lumen bursts out laughing. "Why would you even think that?" she cries, gasping for breath in-between fits giggles.

"Well, you see, when a man and a woman..." his voice trails off, but he makes a very lewd gesture with his hands that could only mean one thing.

Lumen buries her face in her hands as laughter wracks her body. It shouldn't be so funny, it really shouldn't be. But it feels _so good_ to have a reason to laugh again. "No," she gasps, trying to calm herself. "I am not with child."

"Thank Sithis," Nazir suddenly says. "You two had me scared shitless for a moment."

Babette swats Nazir on the arm, earning her a chuckle from the stoic Redguard. "Oh, honestly," she sniffs. " _Men_."

Cicero heaves a sigh of relief. "Right, so-" he awkwardly fidgets with his gloves before loudly clearing his throat. "- what did sweet Lumen want to tell Cicero?"

Lumen waves him off, fighting off another surge of laughter that threatens to overtake her. She needs to be calm and collected for the conversation they are about to have, and she can't do that when she's still tickled.

"Cicero has never seen Lumen laugh like that before," he says slowly. "Was the question really so amusing?"

"Yes," she says. "But not as amusing as the look of horror on your face. Perhaps we should stop the wagon so you can check your smalls?"

"Ha, ha, ha." Despite his mocking tone, his smile is warm. He says nothing more. Content to sit quietly until Lumen speaks again.

"What I have to say certainly won't be the source of any laughter, that's for sure." Lumen drags her hand over her eyes, and then turns to face Cicero. She would prefer to have this conversation privately, but if Nazir and Babette overhear, so be it. They are her family, are they not? They deserve to know the truth too. "You remember when I went to the Thalmor Embassy, right?" Cicero nods, and Lumen takes a deep breath, her heart beating so hard and so fast she swears it's going to burst from her chest at any moment. "The real reason I agreed to go was so that I could kill the Third Emissary, Rulindil."

"Cicero has certainly picked up on your predilection toward Altmer, yes," he says thoughtfully, motioning for her to continue.

Lumen twines her fingers together, trying to stop all her nervous fidgeting. "He became very chatty when my blade was against his skin. I guess he thought I would stop if he told me what he thought I wanted to know."

"Ah, they always do," Cicero says fondly.

"The Dark Brotherhood's past is rife with betrayal, it seems," Lumen says, her breath faltering when the smile fades from Cicero's face. "Rulindil said the Brotherhood was causing a lot of trouble for the Aldmeri Dominion, especially in Cyrodiil. So the Thalmor paid an assassin to filter information to them, and- well, you were there, so you know the rest."

For the first time since she's known him, Cicero is struck speechless. His jaw going a bit slack, and his eyes glazing over with moonlight and memory. Even now in the wake of Astrid's betrayal, the wound still fresh, Lumen cannot hope to understand what Cicero is feeling. He undoubtedly expected betrayal from Astrid, but never from a brother or sister in Bruma or Cheydinhal.

"Did he tell you who the assassin was?" Babette has turned around in the front seat, her arms resting on the back of the bench. Nazir looks forward, his eyes on the road, but he is no doubt listening in as well.

"No, he didn't know the name of the assassin. Knowing the Thalmor, that assassin was probably killed just so they could tie up loose ends," she says, suddenly feeling as if she's plunging head-first into disaster. What if none of them trust her after her next admission? She doesn't want to risk losing them, or risk damaging the relationships she's built. But it's too late to back out now. "I- I do know who orchestrated the destruction of the sanctuaries, though. And as far as I know, he's still alive."

All eyes are on her, and only now does she realize she is shaking. Nazir tilts his head to glance at her and Babette stares, openly interested in what she has to say. Lucien wears a frown, his black, spectral eyes trained on her, and then there is Cicero, staring wide-eyed and wild, waiting for her to continue.

She squeezes her eyes shut, because she can't look at them. Not right now. "Forgive me, I have never told anyone this before, and it's more difficult than I expected it to be."

"It's all right, Listener," Babette says softly. "Maybe it would help if you started from the beginning. Why did you want to kill the Third Emissary specifically? There had to be a reason for you to target him."

"Rulindil was brought in to torture my mother for information she didn't have," Lumen says, grateful for the little vampire's suggestion, otherwise she'd just end up babbling without direction. "My mother and a Justiciar were-" she isn't certain how to describe her mother's relationship with Malrian, and the memories are so distant it's difficult to separate dreams from reality. "Uh, they were _involved._ She wanted him to eventually marry her. But when she realized a Thalmor Justiciar would never marry outside of his race, rather than leaving him, she decided to poison him."

Cicero is eerily quiet and all his focus is on her. No doubt he's waiting for her to hurry up and get to the point, as are the rest of her little family. Nazir has less restraint than the rest of them, however, and he asks, "So what does any of that have to do with the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Rulindil claimed that-" a deep breath, because she hasn't said his name in years. "Malrian thought my mother was an assassin sent to kill him, not a far-fetched idea considering there had been a handful of Thalmor agents who had supposedly been assassinated by the Brotherhood. But he was wrong." Lumen's next words seem to congeal in her throat as her mother's tortured screams replay in her mind. "Even after she died, he still couldn't let the idea go. So he started a crusade to destroy the Dark Brotherhood."

"When you were speaking with that Delphine woman, you mentioned that you were raised by a Justiciar," Cicero says, his voice low, even, and just of the verge of sounding accusatory. "Is he the one?"

"I was being a little vague with Delphine." Lumen meets his eyes, and she wants to look away because his gaze is far too intense, but she knows it would be insulting to do so. "He didn't raise me... He just kept me."

Cicero frowns. "Kept you as a daughter."

"No," she says thickly. "As a pet."

Lumen falls silent and finally looks away from Cicero's penetrating gaze. Preferring to keep her eyes on her lap. Her chest burns with shame. She never wanted her family, and especially Cicero, to know what she had been. It's embarrassing to admit that she had once been _so weak._

And yet, strangely, she feels as if an enormous weight has been lifted from her shoulders. The secret is out; Lumen lived with the Altmer who raided the Bruma sanctuary, the Night Mother's crypt, and systematically killed off almost every assassin in Cyrodiil. Thank Sithis he never found out where the Cheydinhal sanctuary was, or Cicero might be long dead, and the Night Mother's corpse burned to ash.

There is no doubt in her mind that this is why the Night Mother tapped her and no one else. If the Night Mother wants vengeance, then vengeance she shall have. But Lumen doesn't have the faintest idea where Malrian might be, and the idea of facing him again is terrifying. Her only comfort is knowing that if she does have to face him, she won't be alone.

* * *

The rest of the journey to Dawnstar crept by in silence. Even Cicero had fallen mostly mute. Occasionally he would begin to hum or mutter to himself only to abruptly stop a moment later. But they eventually made it to the frigid town of Dawnstar, and Mother was tucked safely in a corner of her new, albeit dilapidated, home. Lucien offered to stay home and guard the Night Mother so the sullen siblings could complete their contract and not have to worry too much about Mother's safety.

The Katariah stands alone in the Solitude inlet, moored far away from the dock, but not so far that it is unreachable. The four assassins stand at the edge of the bay, their eyes on the proud ship that bobs on the gentle waves.

"Everyone knows what to do, right?" Lumen asks, turning away from the water to face the others. "We only have one chance at this, so I want us all on the same page. We can't afford any mistakes."

"We know our parts, Listener." Nazir says, casting a quick glance to the swamps beyond the eastern shore of the inlet, "Babette and I will track down Maro and take him to the abandoned shack, while you and Cicero take care of the emperor."

Lumen nods. "If you can manage it, don't kill Maro until I arrive. I'd like a little time with him," she says grimly, eager to slay the emperor so she can focus her rage on Maro.

"I'll try to restrain myself," Nazir says drily, the corner of his mouth slightly upturned.

Ignoring his remark, Lumen turns her attention to Cicero. The cheerful, chatty jester has been abnormally quiet and dour ever since their heavy conversation on the road, not that Lumen is surprised. She cannot tell if he is merely processing everything she told him, or if he is actually angry with her for keeping the truth to herself for so long. With the Night Mother giving her the cold shoulder, she doesn't think she could handle it if Cicero decided to do the same.

"Cicero, do you remember our part of the plan?" She had told him their very simple, straightforward plan on the road. While he nodded his assent then, she isn't certain if he was actually paying attention to her or if he was still lost in his thoughts.

His gaze is focused on the water lapping at the muddy shore, and though he doesn't answer her immediately, his weight shifts, implying that he heard her. After what feels like an eternity, he looks up at her, the faintest of smiles playing on his lips. But a smile is a smile, and after seeing him look so sad for so long, it's a relief to see. "We kill everyone," he says.

"That's right," Lumen breathes, her smile mirroring his. "Kill everyone."

* * *

Three men fall before they ever realize Lumen and Cicero are in the shadows. Their deaths are dealt with precision and speed, they are mere sailors and there's no reason to waste time making them suffer for a crime they did not commit. The Penitus Oculatus agents aboard the ship are a different matter entirely. Even if they weren't directly involved in the sacking of the Falkreath Sanctuary, they are guilty by association, and the Listener and the Keeper ensure they die like the dogs they are. Some go to their deaths with a quiet acceptance, as if they somehow knew the Brotherhood would survive and come for revenge. Others go to the Void screaming in horror, their bellies split by a jester's blade; a jester who laughs as the soldiers grasp at their slippery entrails, trying in vain to keep their insides _inside_.

With the ship's master key in hand, Lumen and Cicero stand outside the door of the emperor's bedroom, their target waiting on the other side. "Ready?" she whispers. There has been very little said between the two assassins ever since they boarded the ship. Nothing more than simple directions or a warning shout if an agent tried to get too close.

Cicero nods. "I am ready, Listener," he says, just as quietly. "Lead the way."

Pushing the door open, Lumen steps inside with Cicero at her back. The room beyond is large and at the end of the room, sitting behind a desk is an old man in fine robes. He is similar in appearance to the decoy, but his carries himself with more grace, and his eyes hold a keen intelligence that a decoy could never hope to replicate.

"And once more I prove Commander Maro the fool," he says, resigned, his gaze sliding from Lumen to Cicero. "I told him the Dark Brotherhood could never be stopped. Ah well, you two and I have a date with destiny, it seems. But such is the case with assassins and emperors, hmm? I know I must die, I have accepted that. But I wonder... Would you allow me a few more words before the deed is done?"

Lumen looks to Cicero, who lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "May as well hear what he has to say, it is not every day one gets to speak with the ruler of an empire. Cicero sees no harm in hearing him out, it changes nothing. He will die soon enough."

"Go on, then," Lumen says, turning back to face the emperor. "Say your piece, old man."

"I thank you both for your courtesy. You will kill me, and I have had plenty of time to accept my fate. But assassins are ambitious by nature, yes? So I ask a favor, consider it an old man's dying wish, if you will. While there are many who would see me dead, there is one person out there who put this scheme in motion. I would be honored if you would kill him, or her, as the case may be."

"Now why would I want to do that?" Lumen asks, her voice sweeter than poisoned honey.

"To punish the cur for his treachery against the empire," the emperor says. "Would you do me this kindness?"

"That would be bad for business," Cicero says, fingering the hilt of his ebony blade. "Very bad, indeed."

"No." Lumen folds her arms across her chest, staring into the emperor's eyes. "No I will not."

"Hmph. Pity. I had hoped to obtain at least a modicum of justice. Oh well, on to the business at hand then."

" _Justice_?" she hisses, her teeth clenched. "Don't you dare speak to me of justice!" The emperor's look of surprise serves to further enrage her, and Lumen moves forward, climbing on his desk and grabbing him by the collar of his robes. "Where's the justice for those of us who've suffered as a result of your cowardice?"

"I- I don't understand-"

"You gave up!" Lumen snaps, just barely able to keep her voice beneath a shout. " _You gave up_ , and you just let the Thalmor waltz into Cyrodiil and take over!"

"They were already there before I ever signed the Concordat," he says, sounding utterly defeated. "I had little choice. The Dominion's swords were at my neck and my people were exhausted. I am truly sorry for any suffering you or your loved ones suffered as a result of the Thalmor. But I had a war to end-"

"You know nothing of my- of _our_ suffering, old man." She holds her dagger aloft, her hand shaking. The rage she feels toward the emperor, the Thalmor, toward Malrian, is amplified by the knowledge that not only did Malrian cause Lumen untold amounts of misery, but Cicero as well. She knows her anger toward the emperor is unreasonable, she knows little of politics and even less about the Great War, so perhaps what he says is true; he had no choice. And people like Lumen and Cicero were just collateral damage. They're nothing more than the hapless bystanders who ultimately suffer when two political forces violently clash.

Before the emperor can react, Lumen smiles tightly and says, "I suppose it doesn't matter at this juncture. What's done is done and your fate is sealed. The Dread Father has waited long enough."

The blade comes down, piercing the emperor's chest with little resistance. Blood pours from the wound and oozes from his mouth as his once intelligent eyes gloss over, and the life within fades. Within a matter of seconds he slumps in his chair, gone to the Void.

"Does sweet Lumen feel better?" Cicero asks, his voice dousing the fires of her rage. "Cicero did not expect you to yell at the old man, but it was rather entertaining to witness."

"I didn't yell," Lumen says quickly. "So its 'sweet Lumen' again is it? You'd been so quiet and, well- _weird_. Weirder than usual, mind you... I thought you were angry with me." She climbs off the emperor's desk, facing Cicero.

Cicero gasps. "No, no! Cicero is not angry with you. Cicero just had a lot to think about." His teeth worry at his bottom lip as he considers his next words. "Although it would be nice if you would try to be a little more forthright in the future, rather than languishing in indecision for months. It is rather frustrating to know that you kept this information to yourself for so very long."

"I wasn't being indecisive!" she snaps, closing the distance between herself and Cicero, and feeling a little guilty when he flinches, but not guilty enough to curb her temper. "There was never a good time to talk about it! And I didn't want to talk about it! It's- painful and embarrassing and _don't look at me like that_! The last thing I want is your pity!"

To Lumen's surprise, Cicero laughs. "Is that what you are so afraid of? Pity? Oh, Listener, silly Listener, you are overestimating Cicero's capacity for compassion. Which is something many have done in the past, but I did not expect you to be so easily fooled by the Fool of Hearts!" A sly grin graces his lips, and he lifts his chin defiantly when he suggests, "I must admit, if I were to pity anyone it would be the Justiciar."

"What?" Lumen snaps, utterly confused and just on the verge of being deeply offended. "Why the fuck does _he_ deserve pity?"

"Because he has incurred the Wrath of Sithis, has he not?" Cicero growls, his lips twisting into the most deliciously wicked grin Lumen has ever seen. "His crimes against the Dark Brotherhood will not go unpunished. We will find him, and we will kill him."

Lumen goes very still. "But I don't know where he is," she says, her voice shaking because she so dearly wants to find him. To kill him. To put an end to the nightmares, the insecurities, the endless torments he drove into her, and that drive her into the bottom of every bottle of alcohol she comes across.

"No?" Cicero shrugs. "Well then if we can't go to him, we'll just have to lure him to us somehow. It doesn't matter. We will iron out the details later, yes? And then we can kill him however you like, dear Listener. But I would suggest we do it very, very slowly. Something that would take days, or even weeks, so that he's begging for death by the end."

"You always say the sweetest things," Lumen breathes, reaching for him, her hands cupping his jaw before crushing her mouth against his in a fierce kiss. Cicero responds eagerly, and a small, needy moan escapes him as Lumen claims his mouth. She'd love to claim more; to push him down on the emperor's desk and have her way with him. But there's still so much to be done. Maro needs to die, and for all she knows, Babette and Nazir have already captured him and are waiting on the Listener and the Keeper to arrive so the fun can begin. With that thought in mind, she reluctantly draws back, but she doesn't release her hold on him just yet.

Cicero licks his lips, his dark eyes blazing with lust and a brutal hunger that Lumen is all too familiar with. "What does sweet Lumen wish to do?" he asks.

"So many things," she murmurs and pulls away from him, desperately needing to increase the distance between them just so she can stay in control of herself. It's been ages since she felt his touch, since before Cicero's flight to Dawnstar, and though she is craving it, she still has a job to do. "But first, before we do anything else, we're going to send Commander Maro to the Void."

* * *

The abandoned shack is just as Lumen remembers it; dingy, damp, and blessedly private. The stench of old blood and wood rot permeate the air, as do the soft groans from Commander Maro as he begins to wake. He tries to move, then gasps, his eyes flying open when he realizes he can't move his arms or his legs.

"Where am I? Who's there?" Maro demands, his voice thick with sleep. He flexes his arms, testing the strength of the ropes that bind him to the small, dirty bed in the center of the shack. His chest begins to rise and fall quickly, his panicked breaths coming in short gasps as the rotten, wood floor creaks beneath the feet of four assassins.

Lumen steps out of the shadows, reveling in the look of absolute fury that flickers across Maro's features when he recognizes her. "Disappointed to see me alive, Maro?"

"You have no idea," he growls. Maro looks away from Lumen when her siblings draw near the bed. His gaze flicks from Cicero, to Nazir, and then to Babette before he settles for staring at the ceiling directly above him.

"What? No pleas for mercy?" Lumen asks, unable to hide her disappointment. "No bargaining? No tears?"

"Cicero was hoping for a 'you won't get away with this' at the very least," the jester says, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

"There's no need to say it, because you won't," Maro growls, and Cicero giggles in response. "My agents will find you-"

"The majority of your agents are dead," Lumen says smoothly. "Just like your son, and just like your emperor."

"Do you really think you can kill the Emperor of Tamriel and get away with it?" he snaps, tugging at the ropes that bind him with more force.

Cicero cackles. "Ooh! He _almost_ said it."

"We're assassins. We get away with murder all the time," Nazir says, and there is a temper to his voice that Lumen has never heard before. He steps closer to the bed so he can glare down at Maro. "I assume you thought you would get away with butchering our brothers and sisters?"

Commander Maro's jaw is set, his eyes hard. "I wanted to avenge my son," he says quietly. "And your superior gave me the means to do so. She gave me _her_." He narrows his eyes at Lumen. "Only she didn't tell me that you can Shout. She didn't tell me you're the Dragonborn."

"That doesn't mean I'm Dragonborn. I'm not the only one who can Shout, you know. We've all heard the story of how Ulfric Stormcloak killed the High King." Lumen knows she's grasping at straws and making excuses to soothe her own nerves and for no other reason. But if Maro figured her out, then it's possible that the other soldiers on the bridge did too, and she didn't kill them, she was more focused on getting out of Solitude _alive_.

"Do us both a favor and don't bullshit me, girl. There have been rumors of a Bosmer Dragonborn who briefly surfaced near Whiterun and then vanished. Guess I know where you vanished to."

Lumen shrugs, grinning down at Maro and trying to maintain and air of levity. Even though she broke one of her own personal rules. If rule number one is _don't get caught_ , then number two is _never leave witnesses_. "I suppose you do, but I don't see what good that does you now," she says, and then looks up to address her siblings. "Well, we all want to see him suffer, the question is how. I am open to suggestions."

"I say we burn him alive," Babette says, her usually sweet, childlike voice pitched into a low growl that betrays her monstrous nature.

Nazir inclines his head in agreement. "It would be a fitting end considering what his agents did to our siblings."

"Oh, yes! Burn him!" Cicero says, cackling maniacally and bouncing on the balls of his feet. "It would be poetic justice, indeed!"

Lumen motions for her siblings to step back as she sucks in a deep breath through her nose, the cool, clammy air of the shack filling her lungs, only to be expelled in a gout of flame as her lips curve around a word.

" _ **YOL!"**_

* * *

Lumen stands before the Night Mother's coffin, admiring the makeshift shrine the Keeper set up when they returned to Dawnstar Sanctuary. A fine, red rug that Cicero claimed from the emperor's bedroom is laid out in front of the coffin, and petals of nightshade and deathbell are scattered across the floor. The area is bathed in the golden glow of multiple candles, and sacred incense mulls in the air, chasing away the damp stench of mildew.

"It's done, Mother," Lumen says, her voice rough from using the fire breath shout to incinerate Maro. "Emperor Titus Mede II is dead," she pauses, waiting to see if the Night Mother speaks, anxiety building with each moment of silence, and then-

_"Very good, my daughter. You have done well."_

The sweet croon of the Night Mother fills Lumen with more pleasure than a taste of skooma or a strong drink ever could. After being devoid of her voice, her warmth, and the distant beat of her otherworldly heart for so long, she almost cries in relief. Mother is speaking to her again, and she couldn't be happier.

_"I must confess that I am conflicted. On one hand, I am pleased at your progress, but on the other, I am profoundly disappointed in you."_

Lumen instinctively drops to her knees in front of the Night Mother. "Mother, please- I beg of you to tell me what I've done so I can make it right."

_"Stand up, child. I am your Mother, not your Master, and I'll not have my Listener groveling at my feet!"_

Her legs shake as she stands up, her head bowed, as the Night Mother continues to speak.

_"My son, Arnbjorn, has been wronged by you. You took advantage of his feelings for you, however base they may have been, and you took advantage of his weakened state. You are to lead your siblings, not mistreat them. I expect better of you, child."_

Lumen flinches at the mention of Arnbjorn. The guilt that had been steadily eating at her ever since that disastrous night now threatens to consume her entirely. _Mother knows_. Of course she knows. If Lumen has the ability to hear the Night Mother's words then certainly the Unholy Matron has the ability to know what her Listener is up to.

"What would you have me do, Mother?" she asks, her chest aching with shame. "I'll do anything I can to make this right."

Gentle, ethereal fingers touch Lumen's chin, coaxing her to look up at the face of the dessicated corpse. The Night Mother's comforting warmth surrounds her; an embrace from a mother who is willing to forgive her penitent child.

_"Bring my wayward son home."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all my readers for being so patient with me. I have been going through a very difficult time lately, hence the delay in getting this chapter posted. I lost someone very dear to me while I was writing this chapter. I was halfway through, actually. When I came back to it, I just couldn't write it. It just reminded me of that horrible time too much.
> 
> I am getting better. I'm certainly not "okay" by any means. But I have taken refuge in my job and in my writing. So after writing two chapters for Cruel Summer, a little one-shot (that I have yet to post), I was able to come back to this. I scrapped what I initially wrote and started all over again, and I am pleased with the result.
> 
> So thank you from the bottom of my heart for your constant support. The favorites, the follows, and the reviews have really kept me going. I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter and will enjoy what's to come. I know I have been looking forward to this part of the story for a very long time. :)


	16. Dawnstar Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for smut (and fluff). That's pretty much all this chapter is, so if you aren't terribly interested in either, you safely skip this chapter and not be lost on the rest of the story.

Lumen has spent the past few days helping her siblings clean up Dawnstar Sanctuary, resting, and constantly worrying about how she's going to deal with her little werewolf problem. Pulling Arnbjorn back into the fold is going to be difficult, and maybe even impossible. But first she's got to _find_ him.

"Listener," Nazir begins, looking up from the pile of gold he's been counting. Once they returned with Motierre's payment, Lumen split the gold up between the remaining siblings so they could outfit their home however they wished. "Are you sure you want to put gold aside for a forge? I really think we would benefit from a torture room."

"I don't want a torture room in my Sanctuary," Lumen says firmly. "The Black Door is designed to keep people out, not in."

"You're no fun," Nazir grumbles good-naturedly. "All right, so no torture, but are you so certain that we'll need a forge? I know the Night Mother wants Arnbjorn to come back to the family, but what if he refuses? It would be a waste of money."

"I'm sure he's not the only blacksmith in Skyrim with an appetite for murder," Lumen says, her fingers drumming against the tabletop, and growing louder the more agitated she gets.

"I think a forge is a great idea," Babette says. "It's a good peace offering, and it will show Arnbjorn that you were thinking of his needs."

Lumen flushes at that. "Um, well- Falkreath had one and we do need special armor, so-" Her cheeks burn, utterly embarrassed about being called out on being thoughtful. "I was thinking of our needs more so than his."

Babette turns to Cicero and says, "You weren't kidding when you said her blush went all the way to the tips of her ears!"

Cicero giggles. "Cute, isn't it?"

"I am not cute," she says through gritted teeth.

Nazir clears his throat and asks, "So when are you going look for Arnbjorn?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she says, shifting in her chair and turning her back on Cicero and Babette, who just snicker in response. "I'm going back to Falkreath just on the off-chance that he's still lingering there. But I'm going to stop by Whiterun first."

"I thought you couldn't go to Whiterun on account of being a thane," Nazir says.

"I can go," Lumen explains. "I just didn't want to speak to a Dark Brotherhood client and possibly draw attention to him. I was being careful."

"So why Whiterun?" Nazir asks, his curiosity piqued.

"I'm going to speak to the Companions. It's possible that Arnbjorn went running back to them."

"That sounds like a death-wish," Nazir says, looking rather nervous. "You're an assassin and the Companions make their living killing people like us."

"They don't know I'm an assassin, and I certainly won't go marching into Jorrvaskr wearing my shrouded armor." Lumen shrugs, then smiles slyly. "I'm the Thane of Whiterun, and there's nothing suspicious about the thane showing up to talk to the Companions because she's concerned about an old friend, right?"

Nazir frowns. "It's hard to say. I don't know why Arnbjorn left the Companions, he never talked about it much. But if he left on poor terms they may be unwilling to speak to you."

"If he left on good terms they may be unwilling to speak to you," Babette adds.

"Well it's worth a try, isn't it?" Lumen asks, exasperated. She's been in charge of the Brotherhood for a week and she's already exhausted. "Did you two argue with Astrid this much or is it just me?"

Nazir and Babette share a look, and Nazir says, "We're not trying to argue with you, Listener. But you are new at this, and after everything that's happened…We just want you to be careful, that's all."

Cicero nervously wrings his hands. "Humble Cicero and his siblings all respect the Listener's abilities, but it is obvious the wolf wants you dead. He was an assassin longer than you, and Cicero does not want to see you die so soon! You must continue to live, continue to Listen, and continue to deliver our Sweet Mother's words, yes?"

Lumen scowls at a loose stitch in her skirt, not knowing why Cicero's words sting so much. But it's hard not to feel like people only want her around because she's useful to them. It doesn't help that she's still upset over the Night Mother scolding her for what happened with Arnbjorn. She's the one who gets told-off by a supernatural entity, and yet Cicero gets off scot-free. He was a part of that mess too! Is he not guilty by association?

With a growl, Lumen pushes away from the table. "I'm going to bed," she says. Babette and Nazir bid her goodnight, and Lumen quickly leaves the kitchen, marching down the hallway to a small bedroom that will eventually be used by initiates. Since most of the bedrooms are caved in or full of crates and barrels, the siblings have to share rooms until the rest are cleared out. Babette and Nazir agreed to share a room since they have opposite sleeping schedules, and Cicero was insistent upon sharing a room with Lumen. She had told him that it was only temporary, and they would not be sharing a room long-term, but she doesn't think he quite got the message.

Lumen sighs in relief when she steps into her temporary bedroom. It's small, which is perfect for her; a small bedroom is easy to keep warm. It's sparsely furnished with a comfortable chair, a dresser, a bed, and a few wrought iron sconces lining the walls.

The bedroom door snaps shut, and a second later Cicero is pressing himself against her back, his arms coming around to embrace her. "Poor sweet Lumen has been in such a foul mood, is there anything Cicero can do to fix that?" he asks.

"I need to ask you something," she says quickly, pulling out of his hold and turning to face him. Lumen doesn't often torment herself with 'what if' scenarios, nor does she allow herself to feel insecure. But ever since the family moved to Dawnstar, a dozen rotten scenarios of everything-that-could-possibly-go-wrong have been running through her mind. It's annoying, and it's made even more annoying by the addition of a handful of insecurities she never experienced before. It is time to destroy at least one of those insecurities right now.

Cicero tilts his head curiously, smiling up at Lumen despite how serious she's trying to be. "Yes? What is it?"

Lumen folds her arms, feeling stupid for even needing to ask. "I- I just need to know where we stand, I guess."

"That is not a question."

"I'm getting to it!" she snaps, then starts to pace around the small room. "What would you do if the Night Mother were to suddenly stop speaking to me and I was no longer useful to the Brotherhood?"

Cicero furrows his brow in confusion, but the carefree smile never leaves his face. "That's a silly question. Why would Mother stop speaking to you?"

"It's a hypothetical question, so just humor me and answer it," Lumen says, finally ceasing her pacing. "Please."

"Oh, very well," he says, sounding a little put-out. "On the off-chance that Mother stopped speaking to you, I highly doubt you would no longer be useful to the Brotherhood. You could still do Mother's work without hearing her words, yes? Cicero does Mother's work and yet, he has never heard our Unholy Matron's lovely voice."

"You have a point, I suppose," Lumen says, scuffing her foot against the ground. "But I want to know what _you_ would do."

Cicero shrugs. "I would tend to Mother and probably endure more of your silly questions."

"And if a new Listener was found?"

"Cicero cannot truly say how he will react to an event until it has happened" he says, placing his hands on his hips and watching Lumen quizzically. "What you are proposing seems quite unlikely and Cicero would like to know where you are going with this line of questioning. Has Mother stopped speaking to you?"

"Well- no, she hasn't."

"So what is the problem?" he asks, his smile growing wider, a sure sign he is starting to figure it out anyway.

"N-nothing! There is no problem," Lumen stammers. "It was a dumb question. Forget I asked."

"Oh, no. Cicero will do no such thing." He steps closer, his dark eyes boring into Lumen's. "Sweet Lumen is worried about something, but as usual, she is not being very forthright. Sometimes Cicero wonders if Lumen thinks he is a mind-reader." Cicero takes her hand in his, giving hers a reassuring squeeze. "For the record, I am not. So please do try to be a little more blunt."

"Can we just forget about it? Please?" she asks, aggravated at her own weakness.

"No," Cicero sighs. "Earlier on, you said you want to know where we stand." He speaks slowly, as if he's putting all the pieces of her convoluted question together in his head, and restructuring them into something that makes sense. "And then you proceeded to blather on about Mother not speaking to you and there being a new Listener…" Cicero pauses, biting the inside of his cheek. "Do you think I would ignore you in favor of a new Listener?"

Lumen can feel her face burning, and she turns away from Cicero, preferring to stare down at the floor rather than at him. "Something like that."

Cicero bursts into a fit of laughter. "Oh, Lumen! That _is_ stupid!" he says, cackling so hard that he doubles over, clutching at his sides.

"I told you it was stupid!" she snaps, stomping away from him and flopping in a chair to quietly sulk while Cicero attempts to collect himself.

"You know," Cicero begins, his words stifled by a few lingering giggles. "for someone who puts up such a strong front, you certainly require a lot of reassurance." Lumen grumbles incoherently to that, and Cicero steps closer to her, resting one hand on the armrest of the chair, the other gripping Lumen's chin and forcing her to look at him. "Even if Lumen was nothing more than a mere initiate, and- maybe if _Nazir_ was the Listener, Cicero would still be here with you."

"That's because Nazir would never agree to share a room with you," Lumen says lightly, even though her heart is threatening to pound its way through her chest at any given moment.

"True!" Cicero laughs. "But Cicero has been fond of you for a long time now, even before Mother named you Listener. The only thing that has changed is that you are no longer Cicero's subordinate."

"Sometimes I forget that I'm technically your superior," Lumen muses. "Do you prefer it this way?"

"Oh, yes. Cicero would not have it any other way," he says, nodding eagerly and seemingly pleased with the idea of Lumen in charge.

A delightfully wicked idea forms in Lumen's mind, and she smiles sweetly at Cicero when she says, "That reminds me, Mother scolded me for my actions with Arnbjorn, and yet, she didn't say anything to me about your behavior during that time. You did plant the idea in my head, and you did your level best to work me up before leaving me alone with him. If you ask me, you're just as guilty as I am." She leans forward in her chair, her elbows on the armrests and her fingertips steepled together. "I think Mother didn't say anything about you because she's leaving your punishment in my _very_ capable hands."

The smile instantly falls from Cicero's face, no doubt the jester is not terribly keen on being punished by Lumen. He takes a step away from her, and Lumen is inordinately pleased at how uncomfortable he becomes under her unblinking gaze. "Sweet Lumen wishes to punish humble Cicero?" he squeaks. "Perhaps Cicero can offer you something in the way of supplication instead?"

"I was hoping you'd say that." she leans back in her chair, watching Cicero carefully. "Lucky for you, I have no desire to punish you. But-" she taps her chin thoughtfully. "I could make use of you," she says, her full lips curling into a grin. "I have needs that you could tend to, dear Keeper."

Cicero's smile is back in place. "Of course, Listener. Humble Cicero lives to serve after all," he says, his voice trailing off into a promising growl as he steps closer to her and drops to his knees. His gloved hands rest on Lumen's thighs, his thumbs gently rubbing across the fabric of her skirt.

The sight of the Keeper staring up at her from between her legs has all sense leaving her, and her blood rushing to her loins. "Then serve me," she commands.

"With pleasure," Cicero murmurs. There's a slight shifting of his shoulders as he sheds his gloves, then his bare hands are traveling up her legs, massaging her calves before pushing the hem of her skirt above her knees.

Heat courses through her when he brushes his lightly stubbled cheek against her inner thigh, his hands dancing across her exposed flesh and pushing her skirt above her hips. Her arousal is making her restless, as are Cicero's light, teasing touches as he slowly moves closer to the center of her desire. Divines, how long has it been since someone has done _this_ for her? Years, at least. Most of her amorous encounters during her time in Skyrim have been very quick and to the point, and Lumen would never let a random stranger do something so intimate. It requires a certain amount of trust to allow someone's teeth so near to one's most sensitive areas.

It is a strange thing to be able to trust after so long. Yet here she is, trusting a murderous, madman with an affinity for jester motleys. Oh, well. She's done crazier things in her lifetime. But this doesn't feel so crazy. Not when his hands are traveling from her thighs and up her torso, only to tug at the laces of her dress and expose her breasts to the chilly Sanctuary air. But Cicero makes sure she isn't cold for long as he places hot, open-mouthed kisses across her breasts, before capturing a nipple between his lips, his teeth grazing over the sensitive peak. And while he's lavishing attention on her breasts, his fingers hook around the hem of her smalls, gently tugging at them.

Lumen shifts her hips so the Keeper can rid her of her smallclothes. "Don't throw them across the room," she says breathlessly. "I hate that."

Cicero looks up at her, though he's still nuzzling her breasts. "Sweet Cicero would never do something so rude," he says, his voice rough.

"I distinctly remember you destroying a pair once," she says, smiling fondly at the memory of their first romp in the Falkreath forest. Lumen runs her fingers through his hair, pushing his hat from his head in the process. But rather than allow it to fall to the floor, she carefully places it aside. Then her fingers are back in his hair, her fingernails lightly grazing across his scalp, drawing a shiver from him with each stroke.

"That was different," he murmurs, kneading her bare thighs as he makes his descent down her torso. The slight tremor to his hands betrays his straining self-control. Lumen knows it's a struggle to move slowly, and an even greater struggle to be gentle. Tenderness is not inherent in his nature, nor is it in hers. She wonders what he might do if she ordered him to take control and take her in any way he wanted. The thought of doing so only riles her further, but now is not the time to reward him. Maybe later, when the Keeper has atoned for his rotten behavior.

Cicero bows between her legs once more, and Lumen can't help but whine with need when she feels his breath ghosting across her sex. "Cicero, please…" It's shameless how she begs, but she's utterly helpless. Caught in that liminal moment of sweet torment before the first touch of his tongue.

She gasps when his tongue slips between her folds, licking a hot, sensuous path through them. His fingers curl against the flesh of her thighs, guiding her legs further apart as he presses his tongue harder against her, flicking it insistently against her throbbing clit. When his fingers enter her, Lumen moves her hands from his hair to the arms of the chair, the old wood creaking from the force of her grip.

"Yes," she rasps. "Just like that. Holy sh- _Ahh_!" her curse breaks off into a strangled cry when he curls his fingers inside her, sending fiery tendrils of pleasure through her body with every delicious stroke. Her harsh panting fills the air when his clever lips latch onto her clit, each gentle suck pushing her closer to her peak.

Lumen grabs the back of Cicero's head, holding him firmly against her as he alternates between flicking, lapping and sucking. If his exquisitely talented tongue and equally skilled fingers hadn't chased all thought from her head, Lumen would be _mortified_ at the ridiculous sounds she's making. At least Cicero doesn't seem to mind. If anything, the helpless moaning only serves to encourage him. A final flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers has her crying out and shivering, her eyes fluttering shut and her muscles tensing to an almost painful degree as an orgasm surges through her. Cicero continues to pleasure her throughout, determined to draw out her ecstasy as long as possible, until Lumen is almost in tears from the intense sensation.

Cicero grins at her when he pulls away, and slowly drags his tongue across his lips. His dark eyes are somehow darker as he watches her catch her breath. "Did Cicero do well, Listener?" he purrs, clearly pleased with himself.

"I think you know the answer to that." Lumen stands and allows her dress to fall to the floor. The walk to their bed is a little difficult considering her legs still feel like they are made of jelly, but Cicero's hand is on her lower back, guiding her the rest of the way. She perches on the bed and says, "Well, what are you waiting for? Get undressed."

His lips curl into a wicked grin. "Sweet, obedient Cicero was just waiting for your next command, my Listener."

* * *

"Lumen, wake up!" Cicero trills, shaking the sleeping elf. He woke up after three hours of peaceful sleep, then he'd bathed, dressed, said hello to Mother, and chatted with Babette for a while. But after that he became terribly bored. By his count, the Listener has been asleep for five hours now. How much sleep could she possibly need? They had a mission from Mother to complete, after all!

"Come on! It's time to wake up!" Cicero shakes her a little harder, then tries to tug the blankets off of her. "Hmm, sweet Lumen's grip on her blankets is surprisingly strong for someone who is supposedly sleeping," he giggles. "You aren't sleeping at all!"

"It's hard to sleep with you making so much damn noise!" she snaps, finally sitting up and giving her blankets a final tug, pulling them out of Cicero's grip. "For the love of Sithis, if you don't go away and let me sleep I really _will_ punish you. And I promise you will not like it!"

Cicero laughs at her threat, and laughs even harder when he takes in her appearance; a fierce scowl on her face, her hair a tousled mess, and dark circles beneath her eyes. "Oh, dear, someone is not a morning person, I see," he says, and Lumen growls in response, flopping back on the bed and tugging the blankets over her head. "If you get up Cicero will draw you a warm bath and fix you some tea. That sounds nice, yes?"

"No. It sounds terrible," she grumbles. "I'd rather sleep."

"Oh, do not be so negative." Cicero pokes at her. "You will feel better afterwards, I promise!"

"Just let me sleep for another hour- and stop poking me!" Lumen sticks a foot out from pile of blankets and blindly kicks at him.

Cicero sighs. "I did not want to have to do this, but you leave me with little choice," he mutters, and then he grabs her by her ankle and pulls, dragging her from her bed with ease.

"Cicero- what are you- " Lumen yelps when she hits the floor, even though her fall is cushioned by the blankets that were pulled along with her, falling from her bed to the hard, stone floor is no less of a shock.

"I tried to wake you nicely!" he says, trying like the Void to keep the laughter from his voice. But the sight of Lumen fighting her way out of the mass of blankets is a funny sight indeed. Even better is the fact that she is completely naked. The murderous look in her eyes is cause for concern, but being choked to death by a furious, naked woman wouldn't be so bad. There are worse ways to die.

"You-" she gasps, her voice shaking from both anger and the chill of the Sanctuary. "You-" With a growl, Lumen turns away from him, and Cicero tilts his head to give himself a better view of her backside as she gathers up a blanket to wrap around her shoulders. She's muttering the entire time, no doubt inaudibly insulting poor Cicero, his lineage, and whatever else the acerbic elf can think of.

"You are not terribly articulate first thing in the morning, are you?"

"Oh, shut up," she growls, snatching a pillow from the bed and lobbing it at him. He catches it with ease, which only seems to anger her further. "There are better ways to get me out to bed, you know."

"Cicero tried!" he exclaims. "Cicero tried to tempt you with a warm bath and tea, but you were determined to sleep the day away!"

"Cicero-" Lumen rubs her forehead as if she's trying to ward off a headache. "Wanting a full eight hours of sleep is not 'sleeping the day away.'"

"Bah." He flaps his hand in the air. "You would sleep for ten if you could."

"So?"

"So," he mirrors, "we have a task from Mother, do we not? She has waited so long to have a family again, and we should not make her wait any longer to have the family back together and whole once more." He forces his smile to be a little brighter, hoping Lumen doesn't hear the plaintive note in his voice. Perhaps it's selfish of him to shield his own desires behind the Night Mother's most recent task, but after being alone for so very long, Cicero is looking forward to having a Sanctuary full of brothers and sisters again.

Lumen heaves a sigh. The reminder that the Night Mother has given her a task curbs her need to argue. "I'm surprised you're so eager to go looking for Arnbjorn," she says, turning away from him to rifle through her dresser drawers.

"Why is that?"

"You tried to kill him," Lumen says flatly. "So I assumed you didn't like him very much."

"Cicero has tried to kill a lot of people," he says with a shrug. "It is not personal."

"Hm," Lumen hums, not sounding entirely convinced. She pulls a clean pair of smallclothes from the drawer and glances Cicero's way. "Hey- can you, um, turn away?"

"What? Why? Cicero has seen everything anyway," he says, grinning at a very vivid memory of having his face between the Listener's legs. Oh, he's seen quite a bit of her. Is she really going to go all shy on him now?

"I know you have," she says, her voice softening as she looks away. "I just, um- Ah, damn it. It's going to sound so stupid when I say it out loud."

"Probably so, if last night's conversation is anything to judge by." He tilts his head. "Would it help if Cicero promised to contain his laughter this time?"

"I don't like to be watched when I dress," she blurts out as she tugs the blanket a little tighter around her shoulders.

"Cicero is not really _watching_ you. He is looking at you because we are having a conversation, but-" the pained look on her face quells his urge to continue debating with her, though it does little to ease his curiosity. "Oh, all right," he says, turning his back to her. "Is this better?"

"Yes, thank you."

He sits quietly as he listens to her move about the room; the shuffle of cloth as she drops the blanket to the ground, a soft curse escaping her- likely when she fights with the clasps of her breast band, and then the creak and groan of leather as she slips into her armor. Cicero does wonder why she doesn't like to be watched, especially since Lumen is not shy when it comes to her own nudity. He suspects that having eyes on her as she puts her clothes on has something to do with a Thalmor-shaped shadow that haunts her past. Ever since her admission of being a _pet_ , he's been wondering exactly what all that would entail, though he has done his best to contain his shameful interest.

Assassins, as a rule, don't make a habit of talking about their pasts, and it's considered rude to even ask. Cicero knows there's no point in asking her, anyways. Lumen gave them all the information she was willing to give. She gave just enough so that they could finally know the truth of what happened to the Dark Brotherhood, and so they could seek vengeance. If he asks for any further elaboration, his request will likely be met with excuses, shouting, or a cold shoulder. Either way, it's certain to make her angry and he'd rather not be kicked out of the Listener's bed so soon. Even if she complains incessantly about one thing or another, he much prefers her grumbling to silence and loneliness.

A soft punch to his arm startles Cicero from his thoughts, and he turns to see Lumen wearing plain leather armor, similar to the armor she was wearing when he met her in front of the Loreius farm all those months ago.

A look of surprise must have slipped through his usually cheerful mask, either that, or Lumen is getting disturbingly skilled at reading him. Because she smoothes her hands across the oiled leather cuirass and says, "It's not as nice as the shrouded armor, I know. But I wanted to remain inconspicuous-" she pauses, "Well- as inconspicuous as I can be while traveling with a jester on a horse with glowing red eyes."

"You'd be surprised at how easily Cicero can move through a place undetected, not many people bother to remember a simple fool."

A soft smile appears on her lips. "I remembered you," she says, and before Cicero can manage a response to that, she's tugging on his arm and urging him to follow her. "Come on, since you got me up at this miserable hour, you should do the polite thing and fix me some breakfast before we head out."

With that, Lumen exits the room, leaving Cicero to stumble after her. Still half-dazed from her admission, but pleased nonetheless. Just as pleased as he was all those months ago when they reunited in Falkreath Sanctuary, and sweet Lumen told him he was _memorable_. Who knew the kind Bosmer from the road, who later became the pretty initiate that took an interest in him, would eventually become the Listener? His sweet Listener who quiets the chaos in his mind. Who prefers _his_ company above all others. Who remembered him, even though they only met briefly on the road. To say he is touched would be a glaring understatement.

Perhaps he'll let her sleep for _six_ hours tomorrow...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is taking me some time to work on. (I had to re-play the relating quest because it had been so long, and just trying to make sure I have all the lore straight and the characterizations done right... well, it's quite an undertaking. But I'll get it done eventually.) So I hope this chapter, as short as it is, will tide everyone over until I get the next one finished. :) I know there's not much going on here, but I did want to build on Cicero and Lumen's relationship a bit. They're still hopeless, aren't they? I admit, I get nervous when I weave fluff into a story- like at the end of this chapter. Hopefully it's cute without being too cheesy. Anyway, I hope those of you who were wanting more smut are happy. XD
> 
> Up next: While Cicero and Lumen journey to Whiterun, something interesting is happening in Markarth...


	17. The Forsworn Conspiracy

Delphine is not a woman who tends to overanalyze her thoughts. She's a warrior, a Blade, and she knows herself well. There are no dark, unexplored corners of her psyche. No repressed memories to haunt her in her quiet hours. But sometimes she finds herself combing through her thoughts and picking apart what she remembers of her past, because she's fairly certain she's done something to offend the gods- because she is _cursed_. And that curse is Lumen.

There was a time when she'd foolishly hoped for a Dragonborn who was capable, honorable, and who could show up at a meeting place _on time_. But the gods have a strange sense of humor it seems, and so Delphine ends up with a lazy, foul-tempered, alcoholic Bosmer with ties to the Thalmor, and gods know what else. Oh, and she can never meet Delphine within a reasonable amount of time. How long had she been waiting for her? Well over a week at least!

Delphine didn't know how much longer the Forsworn would tolerate having her as a neighbor. Not that her little party posed any real threat to them. A middle aged Breton warrior, an elderly Nord mage, and a Bosmer hunter were hardly anything for the witchmen to worry about. They aren't too close to the Forsworn camp, just close enough to see the temple in the distance, and even though they've been politely ignoring each other, she knew their patience would eventually run out.

"Do you think something happened to the Dragonborn? Perhaps she's in trouble."

Ah, Faendal. He always thought the best of everyone, with the exception of Sven. How many times had Delphine pulled those two apart before they drew blood? All over a woman who seems more interested in her own brother than either of them. Of course, there is no way Delphine is going to tell them _that_. It's not her fault if they're both too besotted to see it.

"No, I don't think something happened to her," Delphine sighs. "She's just irresponsible."

"Well," Faendal hesitates, running his finger along his bowstring as he considers his words, "I'm just wondering how much longer we're going to be out here. I'm not complaining but- we're starting to run out of basic supplies."

"Even if she shows up, how are we going to get to Sky Haven Temple?" Esbern asks. "The Forsworn still outnumber us, and I doubt they would be willing to let a group of outsiders walk through their camp."

"I don't know," Delphine says, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Damn." She can feel a pounding headache coming on. She'd known about the Forsworn camp at Karthspire, what she did not know is how large it is. What a waste of time and effort it has been to come all the way out here, only to find one of the largest Forsworn camps she's ever seen is blocking their way to the temple. And what if Lumen does show up? Having the Dragonborn by their side probably wouldn't make matters any better. Delphine has seen Lumen fight, and she knows she's quite good, but even the addition of the Dragonborn won't be able to turn a fight against an entire army of Forsworn in their favor.

"Do you think the Forsworn would be willing to talk to us? It's a long shot, but we could certainly try, right?" Faendal asks.

"My dear boy," Esbern says, and Delphine suppresses a laugh at Esbern calling Faendal 'boy' when the Bosmer is likely older than he is. "The Forsworn are notoriously distrustful of outsiders, and they will attack us if we get too close. I don't know about you, but I'd like to keep my head on my shoulders."

Faendal places another log on their meager campfire and says, "Well since we're going to be out here for a while, we should consider traveling to Markarth to pick up some supplies."

"I'll go," Delphine says without hesitation. "Faendal, I want you and Esbern to stay here on the off-chance that the Dragonborn shows up while I'm gone." She has no real desire to walk into an Imperial controlled city, especially one that is rumored to have a Thalmor Justiciar staying there, but Esbern is in just as much danger as she is. He is capable, but Delphine is younger and might have a better chance of escaping the Thalmor if it comes down to that.

"I am quite capable of looking after myself," Esbern says tersely. "I'd rather not have you traveling through the Reach all on your own. You should take Faendal with you."

"I'm capable as well," Delphine says, smiling at Esbern and hoping to ease his worries. "Don't worry, old man, I'll be fine. I've been through far more dangerous situations than walking down a road in the Reach." She turns to Faendal to reiterate her earlier command. "You are to stay here with Esbern. Understood?"

"Understood," the elf nods. If he has any complaints, he's keeping them to himself, and Delphine is grateful for that. "When should we expect you to return?"

Delphine shrugs. "I'll leave at first light, and I hope to return before sunset. If that doesn't happen then I'll stay in Markarth overnight and travel back to camp in the morning." She doesn't mind traveling through the Reach during the day, but there's no way in Oblivion she'd travel the Reach after dark. That's just begging for trouble.

"And if the Dragonborn shows up while you're gone?" Esbern asks. "From what you've told us, she doesn't sound like she's very patient."

"Make her wait." It's a struggle to keep from scowling at the thought of that insufferable elf, and it doesn't help that Faendal and Esbern seem rather amused by Delphine's unflattering descriptions of the Dragonborn. Let them laugh. They don't know. They haven't endured the misery of Lumen's company. "I don't care if you have to use a paralysis spell on her. You make her wait."

* * *

Traveling to Markarth went as well as could be expected. There were a few lone, starving wolves that tried to attack her, but they were easily dispatched. The Forsworn were watching her as she made her way through the Reach, she couldn't see them, but she knew they were there. She _always_ knows when eyes are on her. Delphine has attracted their attention, and they weren't going to let her move through their territory without supervision. But they never attacked her. Still, she knew it was only a matter of time before their patience with her presence wore thin.

Even though she's been living in Skyrim for many years, Delphine has only traveled between Whiterun hold and the Rift. She never made it as far as Markarth, and she always wanted to. She'll never admit it to Faendal or Esbern, but it's part of the reason why she volunteered to get supplies. The city is _beautiful_. The ancient dwemer architecture has withstood the tests of time; the white stone and golden domes of the city shine in the sunlight just as the Imperial City once did. Despite being made of stone, the city feels soft and welcoming somehow, possibly due to the mists rising from the numerous waterfalls throughout the rocky city.

Delphine can't help but like it here, even if the city has a faintly acrid smell. The scent of sulphur, sweat, and molten metal hang in the humid air. There are more laborers in this city than nobles; blacksmiths, miners and merchants fill the streets. The city is so busy, more so than Riverwood ever was, or ever will be. But it's also dangerous. It's under control of the Empire, and there are Thalmor here. As much as the likes it here, she had to remind herself that she can't get too comfortable. She cannot afford to drop her guard, not even for a second.

Strangely enough, despite the presence of a Thalmor Justiciar, there are men and women openly wearing amulets of Talos around their necks, and even a Shrine of Talos within the city. Strange. Very strange. Could it be a trap, perhaps? Or simply the work of a very lazy Justiciar? Or maybe even the work of a Justiciar who just doesn't care anymore? Delphine reminds herself that there were traitors on her side. Traitors within the Blades that sold them out to the Thalmor in exchange for their own lives and a fair bit of gold. It is possible that there are traitors within the Thalmor's ranks as well.

Possible. But not likely.

Regardless of her paranoia, it does not quell her desire to visit the shrine. Perhaps she can petition her god for a new, more trustworthy Dragonborn? She can only hope that Talos will have taken notice of how ineffective Lumen is and grant her wish. And so, before she purchases the supplies for her meager army, she heads to the shrine of her forbidden god.

The Shrine of Talos is cool and dim. The sparse light from infrequent torches lights the main chamber, and even though there are no torches in the short hallway between the door and the actual shrine, she can still see well enough to make her way in without stumbling over the crooked flagstones of the sloping pathway. There are voices within, and out of instinct, Delphine moves a little slower. Gingerly placing one foot in front of the other, and holding her breath, and stupidly ignoring that little voice in her mind that's telling her to _run_.

"What did you do to Eltrys?" a man in studded armor asks, clearly alarmed, and Delphine doesn't understand why until she notices a pool of blood flowing across the floor.

"The same thing we do to all the natives who try to change things around here," a guard steps closer to the man. "We had a nice little deal going between Thonar and Madanach until you and Eltrys started snooping around. You wanted to find the man responsible for those killings? You'll have plenty of time with the King in Rags when you're in Cidhna mine."

The man takes a step away from the guard, and he reaches for his sword. "No! You're not taking me to that mine!"

For a moment, for a brief, _wild_ moment Delphine considers rushing forward and helping the poor man fight off the corrupt guard. Whatever is going on here is none of her business, she knows that. But as a Blade, she can't just walk away when someone is in danger. Her fingers wrap around the hilt of her sword, and just when she's ready to move, another guard rushes forward as the man draws his sword, a guard she hadn't seen, and he plunges his sword through the man's abdomen. The man screams and falls, his blood mixing with the blood that had been steadily pooling at his feet.

" _Oh gods, how many guards are in here?"_ she wonders silently. Though she can scarcely hear her inner voice over the staccato of her heartbeat.

"Damn," the second guard says. "Thonar won't be happy. He'll want to pin this on _someone_ , you know."

The first guard snorts. "Maybe you should've thought of that before you killed him. Idiot."

"I see someone," says a third guard, and Delphine swears her heart stops beating when the three guards look up at her.

Very quietly, Delphine says, "Shit."

* * *

" _It could be worse,"_ Delphine reminds herself. Because it could be. Because those guards could have taken her to the Justiciar rather than the mine, and if Delphine is completely honest with herself, she much prefers Cidhna mine and the Forsworn inside over the Thalmor. The indignities aren't so bad, either. At least, that's what she keeps telling herself. The female orc guard that strips and searches her has no interest in molesting her. She's only interested in getting Delphine changed into her prison rags and unceremoniously shoving her into the mine.

And that's when Delphine starts to worry; she's in a prison full of violent men who haven't seen a woman in a very, _very_ long time.

She recalls a her early days in the Legion, before she became a Blade. New soldiers always got stuck with guard duty, and she was no exception to that rule. Most soldiers hated it, but Delphine used it as a learning experience. As boring as it was, there was something to be learned from the prisoners. All those memories are rushing back to her now, and the one she remembers the clearest is this; the prisoners that quietly cower in the corners usually die in them, and the prisoners that stood their ground had a better chance of surviving.

So with that in mind, she slowly makes her way down the wood ramp with the intention of showing that prisoner who's been staring at her that she's no easy target.

The man smiles at her as she moves closer. "What are you in for, new blood?" he asks, his voice surprisingly warm and cultured, and completely throwing Delphine off-guard.

"Nothing," she says, "I'm innocent." She's not sure if it's wise to answer him honestly, but claiming ownership of the multiple murders she's been framed for might mark her as a violent one, and she'd hate for the other prisoners to consider that a challenge.

"Innocent? So was I, for the first one," he says, then shrugs nonchalantly. "The others were all me, though. You want my advice? Grab a pickaxe, serve your time and get out."

Delphine sighs and sits down at the fire pit. Near enough to the man for a conversation, but far enough away to give her room to move if he decides to attack her. "They tell me I'm in for life," she admits, but she refuses to believe it. She'll tunnel her way out of this Forsworn-infested mine with her bare hands if she has to.

"Ohh…" he breathes. "So you're the new lifer, then? Tough luck, friend. Those guards set you up good."

"Tell me about it," Delphine grumbles. The conversation gutters out, and Delphine stares at the burning embers in the firepit, the gears of her mind turning. She will not panic, and she will not despair, though all she really wants to do is curl up somewhere and have a good cry. She also wants to throttle Lumen within an inch of her miserable life. If she'd bothered to show up at Karthspire, maybe things would've gone differently. Maybe Delphine wouldn't be stuck in a prison full of Forsworn.

Delphine runs her hands through her hair, desperately trying to think her way out of this horrible situation. There has to be something she can do, but she honestly doesn't know what. And what will happen to Faendal and Esbern? Will they come looking for her, or will that fool elf actually try talking to the Forsworn at Karthspire?

_Karthspire._

A faint glimmer a hope lights in her heart. She's not just stuck in a prison with a handful of Forsworn, but their bloody king as well! And if what she overheard from the guards is to be believed, Madanach is fully capable of sending messages out of the prison. Maybe, just maybe, she could convince him to send a message to Karthspire. See if they'd let Esbern, Faendal, and hopefully, eventually Lumen, pass through their camp? It's a long shot, but- well, giving Esbern and the others access to Sky Haven Temple is a priority. Talos only knows what he might want her to do in exchange for such a favor, though…

"My name is Uraccen, by the way," the man says, startling Delphine out of her thoughts. "Do you have a name? Or shall I just keep calling you 'new blood'?"

"Del-" she cuts herself off, belatedly realizing that it's probably not wise to use her real name in a city with a Thalmor presence within it. "Delanna," she says quickly, then motions to the Orsimer standing guard next to a barred door. "And who is that?"

Uraccen leans forward, pitching his voice a bit lower when he says, "That's Borkul the Beast, and you don't want to talk to Borkul the Beast."

"Maybe I do," she says, and Uraccen laughs nervously. "Maybe I want to find out what he's guarding."

"It's a _who_. Borkul is Madanach's guard, and I'm afraid no one gets to talk to Madanach without getting past Borkul first, but as I said- hey! Where are you going?"

Delphine dusts her ragged trousers off, though it does little good. "I'm going to seek an audience with the King in Rags," she tells him. "Wish me luck."

* * *

For the first time in days, Delphine actually had a little luck on her side. Borkul had demanded a shiv from Grisvar. Grisvar's price was skooma, which Delphine had to get from Duach. Rather than walk all the way across the prison and deal with Grisvar again, Delphine offered the skooma to Borkul, which worked out in her favor.

"Hey, now… That's a good idea," Borkul says, taking the small vial of skooma and admiring it in the firelight. "Go on in, but don't try anything stupid. Madanach is smarter than you think."

" _Some bodyguard,"_ she thinks to herself as she makes her way down the small, rocky tunnel toward Madanach's quarters. She's honestly surprised that Borkul so readily let her pass just for a small bottle of skooma, but good help is probably very hard to find in a prison full of lowlife degenerates.

Madanach's room is not quite what Delphine had been expecting. She had not expected to see a bed, a writing desk, a bottle of wine and even the remnants of what looked to be a decent meal. Sitting at the desk is an older Breton, probably in his sixties or somewhere very near. Grimy skin, messy hair, but still well-muscled despite his age. Of course, life in a mine tends to keep one fit.

"Well, well. Look at you," he growls, turning to face her. "The Nords have turned you into an animal. A wild beast caged up and left to go mad." His cold, icy blue eyes sweep over her form, and linger entirely too long for Delphine's liking. "So, my fellow beast. What do you want from me?"

"Truthfully?" she sighs. "I want my freedom. But seeing as that seems unlikely, I'll settle for a favor instead."

Madanach barks a laugh at that. "Do I look like I'm in a position to grant favors?" he asks, leaning back in his chair and regarding Delphine carefully. "You're a Breton, aren't you? Not a Reachwoman, though. Don't have the accent for it."

"I was born in High Rock, in a small farming village just outside of Wayrest," she says, wondering just how honest she should be with him, and figuring that those keen eyes might see through any lie she tries to weave. "My family moved to Cyrodiil when I was very young, but I've been living in Skyrim for the past fifteen years. So I suspect that my accent is a bit mottled."

"That it is," Madanach says. "So what do you know about the Forsworn? It might be considered very insulting to ask the King in Rags for a favor when you know nothing of his people."

"I know a little," Delphine the only reason she knows anything about them is due to overhearing conversations that happened in her inn. She's never had much of an interest in them until she needed to pass through one of their camps. "During the Great War you lead an uprising to drive the Nords from the Reach, and you succeeded. But a few years later you were captured by a militia led by Ulfric Stormcloak, and your people who survived ran to the wilds of the Reach."

"I didn't ask for a history lesson, woman," he snarls, turning away from her to focus on the papers scattered across his desk. "I want you to understand my people. I want you to understand how widespread the injustice of Markarth is."

Delphine heaves a sigh. "So what do you want me to do?" she asks. Of all the degrading things she thought she'd have to endure in order to wheedle a favor out of Madanach, she never thought she'd be quizzed about the Forsworn. And for the second time tonight she thinks " _Well, it could be worse."_ She'd been terrified that he'd ask for sexual favors in exchange for helping her, and Delphine has absolutely no desire to touch some filthy old prisoner who probably hasn't bathed in Talos knows how long. So really, being questioned about the Forsworn is not so bad in comparison to that. It's really quite pleasant.

"Go talk to Braig. Tell him I sent you," he says, carefully dipping his feather quill into an inkwell, and not bothering to look at Delphine as he speaks to her. "Do that, and then maybe I will consider granting you a favor."

"That's assuming it's a favor you have the power to grant," Delphine snaps, unable to curb her tongue thanks to her mounting irritation with Madanach, and the growling of her empty stomach. "I need you to get a message to one of your Forsworn camps. Is that something you can even do?"

He pauses writing for the fraction of a second. "Which camp? he asks.

"Karthspire."

If that camp is meaningful at all, he doesn't let it show. Instead he says, "Go talk to Braig, woman."

Seeing as she isn't going to get any further with Madanach until she talks to Braig, she turns on her heel and leaves him to his writing. After asking Uraccen to point her in the right direction, she finds Braig and asks him to tell her his story. The man's story is certainly heartbreaking, and a less jaded individual might feel an inkling of sympathy towards the Forsworn because of it. It did pain her to hear his tale of being forced to watch Ulfric's militia murder his four year old daughter, it really did. But Ulfric is a warlord and Madanach is too, and she refuses to believe the Forsworn hadn't shown the Nords the same cruelties. Not after hearing so many horror stories passed around her inn; stories of Forsworn descending on caravans or small farms, looting, raping, and murdering all in their path. Though it seems the Forsworn have the exact same stories about the Nords, and she wonders how much truth is to the stories on either side. Probably a little, but a few bad eggs didn't make up a whole faction of people.

Delphine finds Madanach still sitting at his desk, only he's turned toward the door as if he'd been eagerly awaiting her arrival. "So?"

"I talked to Braig," she tells him. Hoping he doesn't ask for her opinion on the matter, because she doubts he would appreciate her honesty.

"Sad, isn't it? Imagine hearing a story like that, over and over. Each time a different family. Each time a different injustice. My men and I should be in the hills, fighting." For a moment, there is a far-off look in his eyes, and he actually sounds remorseful. But as soon as the mask slips, it's quickly back in place, and Madanach smiles slyly when he says, "I talked to Uraccen while you were gone. He told me your name is Delanna. But if I was a betting man- and I am, I'm willing to bet you gave him a fake name. Am I wrong?"

"No," Delphine sighs. "You're not wrong. But I am wanted by the Thalmor and I couldn't risk giving him my real name. I can't risk giving it to you, either."

To her annoyance, he actually laughs. "Wanted by the Thalmor? Oh, you just get more and more interesting by the second." He grins at her. "And here I thought being framed for multiple murders was the most interesting thing about you. How did that happen, anyway?"

"Wrong place at the wrong time," Delphine admits, feeling uneasy at the sight of his smile. It makes him look more like a feral wolf than a man. "I let my guard down and did something stupid."

Surprisingly, Madanach has no sarcastic remarks for that. He simply nods, then asks, "So why Karthspire?"

"I need access to the ruins at the top of the mountain," she says. "I have friends who have been camping nearby. They pose no threat to the Forsworn, they just need to safely pass through."

"I could probably get the Forsworn on site to stand down," he says thoughtfully. "But I've heard rumor of a Hagraven living there, and Hags are notoriously territorial. She may not be too keen on the idea of outsiders walking through her camp."

"But it's worth a try, isn't it?" Delphine asks. She distinctly has the feeling that Madanach is being a bit vague in regards to what he can and can't do, and she's starting to worry that maybe his power over his people is more limited than she once thought.

"It is. I just need one more favor from you. I need to know I can trust you before I set your people loose on one of my camps."

Oh, by the Nine. She's going to strangle this insufferable old man to death before this is all over. And if she ever gets out of this disgusting skeever den she's going to strangle Lumen too, just because it'll make her feel _so_ much better. "What now?" she asks, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

"Have you met Grisvar the Unlucky? He's rightly named, and he's also a thief and a snitch-"

"Let me guess," Delphine interrupts him. "You want me to kill him."

Madanach's mouth curves into a death-in-flesh smile. "I _knew_ I liked you."

* * *

Delphine is no assassin. She's killed people before, but most of the time she only killed when she was in battle and she had to protect herself. She's never killed anyone _just because_ , but here she is, approaching Grisvar the Unlucky with the intention of murdering him. The fact that he's a bad person and he's in prison because he _deserves_ to be doesn't comfort her at all. Does anyone truly deserve to die? And does Madanach have any right to decide? She supposes he does. Within the walls of this mine, he is king, and his word is law. And while killing Grisvar doesn't exactly sit right with Delphine, she knows she has no choice. She needs a favor and-

_"All things for a price."_

_Delphine is aghast. "Are you seriously expecting me to pay you to go to Kynesgrove with me?" she asks, gawking at the newfound Dragonborn._

_Lumen places her hands on her hips, holding Delphine's gaze. "I don't work for free, and I'll be damned if I go chasing dragons for no good reason! The Jarl of Whiterun didn't give me shit for all my effort."_

_"He made you a thane!" Delphine cries. "What more do you want?"_

_"Gold is more useful than a title!" Lumen shouts."I didn't ask for any of this! I don't want to chase dragons! I don't want to be the dovah-bean or- or whatever it's called! I just want to have a normal life!"_

_"Dovahkiin," she corrects, "and keep your voice down." Delphine holds her hands up in a placating gesture. "Look, I'm just an innkeeper-"_

_The Bosmer snorts. "'Just an innkeeper' my ass! Don't lie to me!"_

_"- and I don't have much in the way of gold, but I can offer you a free bed for the night," Delphine says, willing her voice to be steady despite her anger. She can't blame the elf for being distrustful, and she can't blame her for wanting payment, but gods damn if it isn't annoying._

_Lumen purses her lips, considering her offer. "Throw in free food and booze and you got a deal," she says._

_Delphine sighs. "Fine."_

The unbidden memory of the Dragonborn sets fire to a surge of rage that twists in Delphine's gut. She grits her teeth, her fingers clenching around the handle of a pickaxe as she stomps up to Grisvar.

Grisvar faces her when he hears her approaching. "Hey, you're back! Did you get-" his bloodshot eyes flick to the pickaxe in her hands, then back to her face. "I know you're just a woman and you don't know nothin', but that ain't skooma, and I ain't tradin' a shiv for a pickaxe."

Delphine sneers at both his words, and the bile rising in her throat. She's not a murderer. She's a good person, damn it. But those words lose all meaning when she swings the pickaxe at his head. While most people would see something like that coming, Grisvar, the unlucky sod that he is, does not. The flat of the blade smacks into his skull with a sickening crunch, and teeth and blood go flying while Grisvar collapses to the ground.

" _Don't pass out, Delphine. Don't you dare…"_ she warns herself as she stands, open mouthed and horrified, over the lifeless body of Grisvar the Unlucky. She isn't certain if she's going to pass out, or just throw up, or both. Delphine turns away from the body, taking one deep, calming breath after another. " _Oh, Talos. Oh, gods. I've just killed a man in cold blood on the orders of the Forsworn king! What kind of person am I turning into?"_

"The kind of person that gets things done," she says through gritted teeth. Reassuring herself and willing the nervous chattering in her head to come to a full stop before she completely loses her damn mind. The walk back to Madanach's room is a slow one as she focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and little else. There is blood spattered across her face and clothes, and the bloody pickaxe is still in her hands, dribbling a trail of crimson across the filthy floor of Cidhna Mine. The other prisoners stare at her as she passes by, but they aren't leering like before, they're staring because they are impressed.

Delphine doesn't know what's worse.

When she returns to Madanach, he gives her an appraising look and says, "Oh, look at you. Seething with anger and dripping in blood. I like a woman who can make a statement."

Delphine considers telling him where he can stick what he likes, but she reigns in her temper. "Grisvar is dead."

"I should hope so!" he laughs. "Wish I would've bothered to watch."

"Will you send that message now?" Delphine asks wearily.

"Nope," he says, grunting slightly as he pushes himself to his feet.

"What? Why? I did what you asked! What more do I have to do?" Delphine asks, her voice rising in pitch with each question. Had he just been toying with her from the start? Or is he going to dangle this over her head until he manages to turn her into his slave? Delphine will put a pickaxe right through his eye socket if he dares, and the expression on her face is no doubt murderous, which just seems to invoke more laugher from the obnoxious brute.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, woman," he says, grinning. "Rather than sending a message, I thought I'd personally tell the Forsworn at Karthspire to stand down."

"You-" she gasps, unable to believe it, "you've been planning an escape?"

"I knew you were a smart one." Madanach steps closer to her and roughly claps her on the shoulder. "Your gods must be watching over you, because you got arrested on the very day the Forsworn had planned to bust out of Cidhna Mine. What are the odds?"

She could kiss him, and if he wasn't absolutely filthy and in desperate need of a bath, she would. "Then what in Oblivion are we waiting for? Let's get out of here!"

Madanach laughs. "Couldn't have said it better myself," he says, and Delphine follows him out of his room, eager to leave this wretched mine behind.

* * *

The escape itself was an eye opening experience. Delphine took up the rear of the party, preferring to stay out of the way of any fire spells after one came a little too close during an altercation with a giant frostbite spider. As it turns out, the prisoners of Cidhna Mine had a lot of rage to unleash upon the spiders and Dwarven Spheres dwelling in the ruins beneath the city of Markarth. She knew the Forsworn were capable warriors, but their command of destruction magic was really something else entirely. Esbern would be impressed.

The group comes to a halt outside a small hallway, and a Forsworn woman steps out from behind a pillar. "Madanach, I brought the armor and weapons you asked for," she says, setting a rather large sack on the ground, and then handing Madanach a smaller one. "That one was _not_ easy to get. A few guards had to have their throats slit."

"Isn't that a shame?" Madanach purrs, looking entirely too pleased at the thought of Nords dying. "There's been a slight change of plans, Kaie. We're going to Karthspire rather than Druadach Redoubt."

"Well, all right," Kaie says, sounding uncertain. "They aren't expecting us, and Druadach has been prepared for your arrival-"

"I am aware," he says forcefully, marking the end of that particular discussion. He then steps toward Delphine, holding out the brown, cloth sack. "I had Kaie retrieve the things the guards stole from you. Well- hopefully these are your things. You gave me a fake name, so I assume you gave the guards one as well."

"Thank you," she breathes, smiling for the first time in _days_ when she looks in the sack to see her armor and weapons inside. She is almost whole. Almost free.

"The guards are going to be none too pleased to see a contingent of Forsworn running through their streets, and it's going to get a little messy," Madanach says, sounding absolutely delighted at the prospect. "You just keep your head down and run. Get back to your people at Karthspire. I promise we'll be there as soon as we can."

"How can I trust you?" Delphine asks, trying not to sound ungrateful and failing. "How can I know you won't leave me hanging?"

"Because a Reachman always keeps his promises," he says. "Besides, I've always wondered what was in those ruins. I admit, I am more than a little curious. So I'm going with you when you go delving into them."

Ah, of course there is a selfish reason behind his motivation to help her. Still, if it gets her into the ruins of Sky Haven Temple, she won't complain.

* * *

The party of Forsworn emerges onto the streets of Markarth, and the city instantly explodes into a series of shouts, the clang of metal upon metal, and the sound of Delphine's frantic footfalls echoing off the stone. Delphine hasn't run this hard in a long time. Her lungs are burning and her legs _hurt_ , but her steps do not falter, and she doesn't slow down. The threat of death, or worse, imprisonment, are nipping at her heels and spurring her onward. The guards that are usually at the city gates have abandoned their posts, presumably to join the fight outside the prison. She shoves the heavy gates open and races through them, startling the guards outside, but they don't give chase. All that follows her on her desperate flight from Markarth is the baying of the hounds at the kennel, the sounds of Forsworn battle cries, and the angry shouting of the city guards.

Delphine slows to a jog when her stamina starts to flag, but she doesn't stop moving until she reaches her camp. She crashes through the underbrush, startling both Faendal and Esbern. The elf nocks an arrow so quickly, if Delphine hadn't been so bloody exhausted, she'd be impressed. And Esbern is ready to attack, spells flaring in each hand.

"Wait! It's me!" she cries out, stumbling into the light emitted by their small campfire, and falling to her knees.

"Delphine?" Esbern gasps, the spells in his hands fading as he goes to her side. "Are you hurt?"

Faendal lowers his bow and arrow, his gaze focused on the hills. "There are people coming. A lot of people," he says.

"No, I'm not hurt," she says. "And I know. I know there are people coming. It's okay."

"What in Talos' name happened?" Esbern asks.

Delphine wipes the sweat from her brow. "You aren't going to believe me," she says. "I'm not even sure if I believe it."

The voices of the newly freed Forsworn grow closer. Laughter and shouts of victory ring across the hillside, followed by a few broken verses of songs that are unfamiliar to her. But even at this distance, she can hear the elation in their voices, and she can't help but laugh. She is free. She is alive. And she's found a way into Karthspire.

Now all she has to do is find the damned Dragonborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's no Lumen or Cicero in this chapter, but they'll be back in the next chapter. :) I hope you all enjoyed this one despite their absence!


	18. Ill Met by Moonlight

The Pale is miserably cold most of the time, but in the early hours of the morning it's _unbearable_ , and Lumen is fairly certain she's going to freeze to death before they ever reach Whiterun. Shadowmere is fast, and quite possibly immortal, but that doesn't mean he can gallop for hours on end with two riders on his back. And so, the journey south is passing by at a mammoth's pace.

"Okay, okay. It's my turn!" Cicero chirps. "I spy something that begins with 's'."

"Is it snow?" Lumen asks wearily.

"Nope!"

"Is it the sky?"

"No." Cicero rests his chin on her shoulder. "Are you even trying?"

Lumen sighs. "Is it Shadowmere?"

"Ooh," he breathes. "So close, and yet, so very far."

Sithis, not even two hours in and Cicero is already testing the limits of her patience with his silly guessing games. "I don't know," she says. "I give up."

"It's a _steed_!" he laughs, giving her a squeeze. "Honestly, Lumen, it wasn't that hard to guess."

As much as Lumen does like him, she _really_ does, she could use a little space. Not that 'space' is an option when two people are sharing a horse. But Cicero has been clinging to her like a barnacle for most of the journey south. She certainly appreciates the warmth, but his breath on her neck and his hands meandering across her torso are highly distracting. She mentioned this to him once, and he said _'Oh, sweet Cicero is just trying to keep you warm, Listener!'_ in a voice that could only be described as very essence of false innocence and questionable intentions.

"I don't want to play this game anymore," Lumen mutters. She's already stretched her vocabulary to the limit trying to think of all the different ways to describe trees and rocks.

"Is it because you're not very good at it?" Cicero asks, nuzzling her neck.

"No. That's not why." Lumen rolls her shoulders, prompting Cicero to pull his face away from her. "I was hoping we could talk."

"What would you like to talk about, sweet Lumen?" he asks, and with a laugh he adds, "Cicero may not be the Listener, but he is a good listener nonetheless."

"It's about Arnbjorn," she admits. "I need a plan."

"We Imperials have a saying; man plans and the Divines laugh." Cicero pauses for a moment and absentmindedly drums his fingers against her hip, a sign that he is thinking. "Are you certain you want to talk about him? You tend to become highly agitated whenever the subject is brought up."

"The reason I become agitated is because you and Babette are obviously digging for gossip-"

"That is not true at all!"

"Yes it is," Lumen grits out, then sighs, relenting. "But to answer your question- I really _don't_ want to talk about him, or what happened between us. I hate talking about my mistakes." It feels so strange to be able to open up to someone, but at the same time it's comforting to know she can open up to Cicero and not fear judgment... Not too much, anyway.

"Why do you feel like it was a mistake?" Cicero asks. "Is it because Mother scolded you?"

"No. It's because I- I feel guilty," she says slowly. "And I never feel that way about anything."

"So you feel guilty for seducing him?" he asks, and Lumen can feel him shrug. "Seduction isn't about making someone do what they don't want to do. It's enticing someone into doing what they secretly wanted to do already."

"It was more _force_ than seduction."

"Did he respond?"

Lumen heaves a sigh. "You know as well as I do that the body can respond when the mind wishes otherwise." She falls quiet as she turns over the events of that ill-fated night in her mind, even though the memory makes her skin crawl. "I had him in a vulnerable position, and I used him at a time when he just needed to feel wanted. Top that all off with the fact that I stabbed Astrid right in front of him..."

"She did ask you for that kindness," Cicero reminds her. "And you did not even seem to enjoy it! Cicero would have enjoyed it."

"But how do I even apologize for any of that?" she asks, exasperated with the situation.

"Easily. You open your mouth and words come out," he says, miming the action with his hand.

"Oh, sure. I'll just walk up to him and say 'sorry I fucked you when I wasn't actually interested, I was just hoping I could manipulate you.' That'll go really well."

Cicero laughs. "I think you should work on your wording, but an apology is a good place to start when you are trying to mend bridges." He leans forward, daring to rest his chin on her shoulder again. "Do not worry. It will likely take us a while to track him down, so you will have plenty of time to think about what you need to say."

"Great," Lumen mutters, unable to find much comfort in Cicero's words. She's been agonizing about what she's going to say to Arnbjorn for ages, and as much as she'd like to avoid the situation, she doesn't fancy drawing it out either.

"I have an idea," Cicero says. "Why don't you practice on me? Pretend Cicero is Arnbjorn-"

Lumen snorts. "It'll never work. You're too short and you don't have the beard for it."

"Can you imagine Cicero with a beard?" he giggles.

"I can," Lumen says in between bouts of laughter. "And it's _hilarious_."

"Come on," Cicero says, patting Lumen on the shoulder to draw her attention away from the ludicrous image of a bearded Keeper and back to the conversation at hand. "Cicero is being serious! Just pretend I am Arnbjorn, and say whatever comes to mind."

Lumen shakes her head. "I don't think this is such a good idea," she says, thoroughly uncomfortable with the mixed emotions that just the sound of the Nord's name invokes. She's so tired of being confronted with her victims. When she ran away from Malrian, she was always on the move and she could use and abuse and never have to worry about seeing the damage she'd done. But ever since she's been in Skyrim, and decided to stay, she's had to come face-to-face with the pain she leaves in her wake; first with Runil, and now with Arnbjorn.

"Just try it."

"Fine," she sighs, tired of being pushed. She can do this. She _will_ do this. Maybe Cicero will even give her a little peace and quiet if she gives in. "So, _Arnbjorn_..."

* * *

It's hard to focus with Astrid's blood drying on his hands, the scent of her burnt flesh stinging his nostrils, and the light of the twin moons calling out to his very soul. "You owe me more than your lies," he snarls at the elf. Because after everything she's done, she could at least have the spine to be honest with him. She says something, but her words don't reach him. His mind is changing. His body is changing. His teeth are growing longer, muscles re-shaping, bones breaking and morphing, and changing him into something stronger, something powerful and unaffected by pitiful, weak emotions such as grief. He is a predator. Calm, collected, and focused on the kill. But tonight-

Tonight he is a creature born of rage.

He doesn't remember much of what happens after he transforms. He just tears through the undergrowth, scattering dead leaves and dirt behind him as his steadfast, lupine legs carry him away from the source of his pain and deeper into the pine forest.

The heartache is unbearable at first. Even in his wolf-form, a form that normally dulls his emotions, it feels as if his heart will shatter. His wife is dead. Dead at the hands of that cursed, bitch of an elf, and because of her ambition. He doesn't know what hurts more; the fact that she's dead, or that she betrayed them all. To a wolf, and to a Nord, loyalty and trust are _everything_. And Astrid knew that! She damn well knew that and she threw it all away! All because she felt threatened by that damn elf and her Imperial plaything!

Why did she do it? Why did she go to Maro? And for that matter, why did she trust the man? Most importantly, why didn't his wife come to him with her concerns? Why didn't she let him in on her plan? He could've talked her out of it. They could've killed Lumen and Cicero together and everything would have been put right! But now everything is wrong…

Astrid is dead, and Arnbjorn is alone.

* * *

"Hey, buddy, you can't sleep here. Come on now, wake up!"

Arnbjorn grunts and blearily swats at the foot nudging his side. "Jus' a few more minutes, Astrid-" the words are out of his mouth without a second thought, but when he utters his wife's name, memories of the night before come rushing back to him. His eyes snap open, and he finds himself laying face-first in the grass, still wet with the early morning dew.

"Name's Kust, actually," the man says. "Had too much to drink last night, eh?"

"It's none of your business," he says bitterly. As disappointing as it is, he's glad he's not covered in blood, which is usually the case when he wakes up after a night spent as a wolf.

"On the contrary, when there's a naked drunkard sleeping off a hangover in the cemetery, it _is_ my business," Kust snaps, roughly tossing some breeches and a tunic at Arnbjorn. "Hurry up and get dressed, I've got a family mourning their little girl just beyond that thatch of trees and I'll not have them assaulted by your nudity."

Arnbjorn could care less about a mourning family, but he does as Kust suggests. It's not as if he can return home to fetch his clothes- well, he _could_. But he won't. He refuses to return to that place now. It hurts too much. Even if he were willing to go there, walking through the forest as naked as the day he was born isn't a wise decision.

Kust turns his back to Arnbjorn to afford him some privacy. He stares somewhere beyond the trees, shaking his head and muttering. "It's a damn shame. Unnerving, too. Who knew we had werewolves in Falkreath?"

Arnbjorn stills. "Werewolves?" This is not good. The pine forest is his territory, but he only ever hunted animals and he was always careful to stay out of sight. But last night he was in such a rage- what had he done?

"You didn't hear?" Kust asks him, sounding surprised. "The whole town is talking about it. Mathies and Indara's little girl was killed by a werewolf. The foul beast ripped her to shreds."

" _Oh, by Hircine's hairy arse…"_ Arnbjorn doesn't like children. He doesn't like anyone, really. But he's got his limits on the type of prey he hunts, and he tends to avoid children. Too weak. Too easy to kill. Too noticeable when they go missing. He prefers worthy prey with the ability to fight back, and the idea that he may have gone for an easy kill in his grief-fueled rage sickens him.

"The bastard is rotting in the jail," Kust continues, oblivious to Arnbjorn's distress. "Don't know why the jarl hasn't had him executed yet." He turns to glance at the now dressed Arnbjorn. "Why don't you go up to the inn and get some breakfast? It'll help with that hangover."

"Yeah," Arnbjorn says, reeling at the idea of another wolf in his territory. Who could it be? Certainly not one of the Companions. They would never kill a child, for one. Nor would they be stupid enough to come into his territory. "Yeah, I think I'll do that. Thanks."

Breakfast is the very last thing on Arnbjorn's mind as he makes his way through Falkreath. The town is more crowded than he remembers it, and he is assaulted by a barrage of new faces and new smells. A handful of travelers have come through, it seems. For what purpose, he isn't sure, and he most certainly doesn't care. All he cares about is the scent of a rival wolf in his territory. It's comforting to have something to focus on. He's grateful for _any_ distraction to keep him from thinking about his wife and his lost family.

He is greeted by a female guard in the barracks, a pretty, young thing that looks much too young to be guarding anything, let alone a block full of criminals. "Hail citizen," she says, trying to sound cheerful despite how tired she obviously is. "How can I help you?"

"I want to see the werewolf," he tells her.

The guard sighs in exasperation. "You and everyone else. Look, I'll tell you what I told them; this is a prison, not a side-show, and it's my sworn duty to protect you as much as it is to protect Sinding from an angry mob."

"I'm not going to hurt him," Arnbjorn says. "I just- I want to understand what happened."

"I can't fault you for that," she says, locking eyes with him as if she's trying to root out any ulterior motives just by staring him down. Eventually, she shrugs. "I suppose there's no harm in letting you talk to him. You'd be wasting your time, though. He hasn't spoke to anyone since he's been here."

"It's worth a try," he says.

"I guess," the guard glances at him uncertainly, but she unlocks the door to the prison and opens it for Arnbjorn. "He's down in the pit. You've got ten minutes."

He nods his thanks and enters the jail, wincing at the scent of urine and gods-know-what else, stewing in the stagnant air. But the scent that stands out the most to him is that of another werewolf. And at the end of the room of cells, in the very back, is the pit.

The pit looks like it had been used as a well at some point, before the guards turned it into a cell for more violent offenders. The door is barred with spears that jut from the wall, and the room is full of ankle-deep rainwater. It smells terrible. Of old water that's sat for too long, mildew, and wet dog. Said dog is currently in his human form, standing against the far edge of the circular room, and wearing nothing but a pair of ragged trousers. His blonde hair is matted together with filth and blood, and partially obscures his face. He looks to be a little younger than Arnbjorn, and he certainly doesn't have the stench of Jorrvaskr on him, so he's no Companion. Just a wild, rabid beast.

Sinding turns his head slightly when Arnbjorn approaches, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed in submission. "Come to gawk at the monster?" he asks.

"You're no monster," Arnbjorn growls, more angry than he should be at the man. But he is in no mood to deal with self-pitying comments. "You're a coward."

"I suppose you're right," Sinding says. "What kind of a man kills a little girl?"

"A man- _a wolf_ with no self control." Arnbjorn frowns. He may have left the Companions behind a long time ago, but he still revels in the gifts they gave him. Being a werewolf is a blessing, not a curse.

Sinding looks up at him then, and chances a step closer to the bars of his cell. "So you know what I am?" he asks, then takes a deep breath. "I didn't mean to hurt her. When I saw her I just- I just needed to hunt. I tried to resist, but she looked so fragile. Weak. Helpless prey. I- I feel terrible about what happened. I really do. It would probably be best for everyone if I just went away."

"Would it? And where would you go? To some other village to prey on their children too?" Arnbjorn sneers at the man. Not only does the stupid fool enter another wolf's territory without even realizing. He's now face-to-face with a fellow werewolf and he doesn't even know it. The gifts of lycanthropy are utterly lost on Sinding. "You're a disgrace to our kind."

"Our kind," Sinding breathes, eyes widening as he realizes what Arnbjorn is. "You're a werewolf too? Maybe- Maybe you can help me. I tried to tell the guards but they wouldn't listen to me." He holds up his hand, close to the bars so Arnbjorn can see. "This is the ring of Hircine. I was told it could let me control my transformations. Perhaps it used to. But I'll never know. Hircine didn't care for me taking it and threw a curse on it. The changes just come to me now. I can never guess when. It's always at the worst times. Like... with the little girl."

Arnbjorn stares at the ring, his lips curling in disgust when he notices the dried blood beneath Sinding's fingernails. The little girl's blood, probably, and if the blood is still there, then he doubts the man is as repentant as he says. Even worse is the fact that he can't even control his transformations. Granted, a night of full moons can tear the control away from even the most seasoned of wolves, but needing to steal a daedric artifact just to control them on a day-to-day basis? Now that's just pathetic. "You stole from the Lord of the Hunt?" he asks, not bothering to keep the derision from his voice.

"I did," Sinding sighs. "He is not a force to be crossed, as I have learned too late."

"So what now?"

"I've been looking for a way to appease Hircine. There is a certain beast in these lands- a white stag. It's said that Hircine will commune with whoever slays it. I tracked it into these woods, but then had my _accident_ with the child. I want to beg his forgiveness. Give him back the ring. But I can't do that if I'm stuck in here."

"I'll hunt the beast down. I know these woods better than anyone. Definitely better than you do," he says. A hunt would be good for his soul. It would keep him from wallowing in his misery for a little while. It would be nice to have any reason to stop thinking about his wife, that damn Imperial clown, and worst of all, Lumen. What better way to move on, and to forget, than to hunt and possibly earn the favor of his god?

Sinding's eyes grow wide. "You would do this for me?" he gasps, fumbling to pull the ring from his finger. He practically throws it at Arnbjorn. "Here, take it. I don't want the wretched thing anymore!"

Arnbjorn deftly catches the ring. "I'm not doing this for you," he says. "I'm doing this for me."

"Either way, I will remember your kindness," Sinding says, his words trailing off into a strangled groan as he begins to transform.

Arnbjorn turns away from him, running his thumb along the ridge of the ring and getting the distinct feeling that slipping it on his finger would be a _bad_ thing. Sinding claims the ring causes one to transform at the worst times, and shifting in the middle of the Falkreath prison would definitely be high on Arnbjorn's list of "The Worst Possible Places to Become a Werewolf." So he pockets the ring, glancing at the now-transformed Sinding, who is using his massive claws to scale the wall and escape the Falkreath prison. Arnbjorn scowls at that. If Sinding is repentant, and truly wants to protect people from himself, then he'd let the guards execute him and be done with it.

Perhaps he doesn't deserve to die, but he doesn't deserve to live, either.

* * *

Arnbjorn stands outside the entrance to Bloated Man's Grotto, a battle axe in his hands, and a bow, and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. All claimed from some bandits who thought an unarmed man would be easy prey. He doesn't fault them for trying. They had been well-armed, but poorly trained, and their necks were easily broken. The bow and arrows certainly helped when it came to dispatching the white stag, which was painfully easy to track down. Really, he expected more of a challenge from Hircine… And _more_ is what he got. Hircine, in typical daedric fashion, asked for a favor in order to lift the curse from the ring - Sinding's skin.

To add to the challenge, there are others hunting Sinding and seeking Hircine's favor, but they won't get far. When Arnbjorn has set his sights on something, nothing gets in his way, and his sights are on Sinding.

It feels good to have a goal, _a kill_ , in mind. It feels like a contract, even though the thought of a contract, the Brotherhood, and his wife, causes his gut to twist in pain. But he won't let himself fall into despair. Not yet, anyway. This night is too perfect to waste. The moons are high and the wind is in his hair, and in the distance he can hear the cocky laughter of the other hunters.

With his mind clear, and a hunt that promises to be both bloody and brutal, Arnbjorn takes a deep breath and strides into the grotto.

* * *

Cicero and Lumen reach Whiterun hold after two days of travel, and the sun is high overhead when they enter the city. It feels warmer inside the city walls, which block the chilly winds that sweep through the plains. Whiterun is just as Lumen remembers it; Adrianne working her forge, guards patrolling the streets, and merchants selling their wares.

"I'm starting to think talking to the Companions is going to be a colossal waste of time," Lumen mentions as she and Cicero climb the stairs to the Wind District.

"Cicero tried to tell you that on multiple occasions," he says, moving away from her so she can't swat at him for his remark.

Instead, she sighs, running her hands through her hair and grumbling. "I know, I know. But I didn't know where else to start."

"Well, if all else fails, we can sit at the inn and drink all night," Cicero says, gently rubbing her back. "At least it will be nice to have a warm bed to sleep in, yes?"

"Yeah…" Lumen says weakly, walking slowly and admiring the blooming Gildergreen while Cicero skips ahead.

A loud, bark of laughter draws her attention toward Jorrvaskr, where two Nord men are having an animated conversation with a woman with long, auburn hair. Lumen unabashedly stares at the woman as she turns away from the men and strides down the stairs. She walks with the careful, controlled movements of a predator on the prowl, and Lumen can't help but admire the flex of the lean muscles in her legs, and the flow of her hair. Her armor leaves little to the imagination, which Lumen is immensely grateful for when she is allowed brief, tantalizing glimpse of her perfect, perky breast-

-Lumen tears her eyes away from the beautiful woman when she feels her foot slip over an edge. She yelps, tripping into one of the shallow canals that encircles the Gildergreen, splashing loudly and flailing in an attempt to not lose her balance entirely. Finally she reaches the other side, cursing and shaking water from her boots as the two male Companions erupt into gales of laughter. But, to Lumen's annoyance, Cicero's laughter is loudest of all.

"S-Sweet Lumen are you-" he snorts, covering his mouth in an attempt to hide his smile and control his laughter "-are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she growls, blushing to the tips of her ears. If the Companions weren't going to take her seriously before, they certainly aren't going to give her the time of day now!

The Nord woman passes them by, casting a sympathetic smile at Lumen before turning away and vanishing down the stairs that lead to the market district. Cicero leans close to Lumen and says, "She is rather attractive." He grins widely, and snakes an arm around Lumen's shoulders. "Cicero did not know his sweet Listener liked women, too! Cicero thinks you should chase after the pretty Companion and sweet talk her a bit. Invite her to our bed and-"

"You need to stop," Lumen commands in a tone that brooks no argument, and thankfully, Cicero drops the very enticing, and _very distracting_ subject for now. "Mother wants us to find Arnbjorn and bring him home. I- _we_ can't afford to be distracted for too long."

"This is true," he says, and with his focus redirected to the task at hand, he pulls away from Lumen just enough to loop his arm through hers and lead her toward Jorrvaskr. A good thing, too, because she would never work up the courage to go there on her own after making an ass out of herself.

They are greeted by the two, highly amused Nords that saw Lumen stumble into the water. Twins, by the looks of them, and the only discernible difference is that one has slightly longer hair than the other.

"Welcome to Jorrvaskr, strangers." The long-haired Nord greets them with a smile. "Are you interested in joining the Companions?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Farkas," snaps the other twin. "Do they look like Companion material to you?"

" _Ah, this must be the evil twin,"_ Lumen silently reasons. "We're not here to join. We're actually looking for a friend of ours. He used to be a Companion."

"He used to be?" asks Farkas, and he and his brother share a look before he continues. "Well, what's his name?"

"His name is Arnbjorn," Lumen tells them, looking between the two and realizing that their eyes are silver, just like Arnbjorn's, and she wonders if they are related.

Recognition lights in Farkas' eyes, but his brother scowls at Lumen and says, "We haven't seen him." He cants his head in the direction of the stairs leading to the market district. "And if you consider him your friend- well, then you need to leave. You'll find no help here."

"Vilkas," Farkas complains. "The Companions can't just send people away when they need help!"

"Oh, yes we can," Vilkas sneers.

Cicero steps forward, appearing meek and timid, and while Lumen knows it's a ruse, the twins don't know any better. Perhaps a more submissive type will be able to get some information out of them. Because at the rate it's going, Lumen is going to get angry and start yelling, and then yelling will turn to Shouting, and it'll just get worse from there on out.

"Please, sirs," he says, gaining their attention. "We are only concerned for our friend's safety."

"His safety isn't what I'd be worried about if I were you," Vilkas snarls, looking Cicero over as if he doesn't quite know what to make of him. "Arnbjorn was always the violent type. A ruthless killer through and through, and it only got worse when he was- when he got older. "

Farkas sighs. "We don't know where he is. Haven't seen hide nor hair of him in well over ten years. But-"

"Farkas." Vilkas' voice is firm, but not enough to deter his brother.

"There have been dark rumors coming from Falkreath," Farkas says quickly, much to the dismay of his brother. "No idea what's really going on there, or if Arnbjorn is involved in any way. But it's probably a good place to start if you are looking for him."

"This conversation is over," Vilkas snaps, dragging his brother inside Jorrvaskr without so much as another word to Lumen and Cicero.

Lumen folds her arms and heaves a long suffering sigh. "So Falkreath it is," she grumbles, tugging on Cicero's sleeve. "Come on, if we leave now we can make it to Falkreath by sunset."

* * *

By the time the two assassins reach Falkreath, Lumen is beyond exhausted. The Dead Man's Drink is more crowded than usual, but they still manage to procure a room for the night, and while Lumen sits in a darkened corner of the inn, nursing a tankard of mead and a bowl of lukewarm stew, Cicero chats up the pretty waitress that brought them their food.

She introduced herself as Narri, and she hadn't been entirely certain if she should return Cicero's flirtations or not with Lumen sitting so nearby. But a smile and a nod from Lumen soothed whatever worries Narri initially had, and now she's sitting on the edge of their table and laughing at one of Cicero's jokes.

"So, Narri," Cicero begins, resting his hand on her thigh. "Have you heard any news lately? It's been so long since we've been in Falkreath, and we would not mind hearing some local gossip."

Narri smiles demurely, blushing prettily from Cicero's attentions and from all the mead he convinced her to drink. "Nothing good, I'm afraid," she says, her smile fading. "A little girl was- _murdered_. Some say a werewolf did it, but I don't believe a word of that. I think it was just an excuse the murderer made up."

Lumen perks up at that. "Did they catch the man who did it?" She can hardly believe Arnbjorn would be the type to murder a child, but then again, she knew very little about werewolves, and even less about Arnbjorn.

"Oh!" Narri turns around, surprised. Almost as if she'd forgotten Lumen was there at all. "Well, yes. But he escaped the prison."

"He escaped?" Cicero asks, glancing at Lumen and obviously thinking the same thing she is. "That's- scary. So a murder is still on the loose?"

"Afraid so," Narri says grimly.

"Have you heard anything else of note?" Cicero purrs.

She glances around nervously before leaning closer to Cicero. "Valdr wouldn't want me to say anything about this, but I overheard him talking about seeing a group of hunters heading off toward Lake Ilinalta a few weeks ago. He seemed upset that he wasn't a part of the group. I have no idea what they were hunting, but with so many rumors of vampires and werewolves, and murderers on the loose-" A shout from across the inn grabs Narri's attention, and she gasps. "Oh, no. Valga needs me. I have to go- We'll talk later, okay?"

"Yes, of course," Cicero says, paying close attention to the sway of Narri's hips as she scurries off through the crowd. Afterwards, he turns to Lumen. "Perhaps you should talk to Valdr?"

"Me?" she asks. "Why do I have to do it? You're so much better with people than I am. I don't even know what to do."

"Flirt with him, buy him some drinks, and loosen his lips a little," Cicero says, smirking at her. "Gathering information is part of being an assassin. It is not all sneaking and stabbing."

"It'd be more fun if it was," she mutters, her gaze flicking toward the bar. She recognizes Valdr from the many times she was in the Dead Man's Drink prior. He's a muscular Nord with blonde hair and sun-tanned skin. Not bad looking, but not quite her type, either. But she could certainly pretend he is if it meant it would get her one step closer to finding Arnbjorn.

Cicero reaches out and takes her hand, giving it a squeeze. "Cicero will be right here watching you. If you feel uncomfortable, all you have to do is signal for me," he says. "You are safe."

"That's not the issue," she says, though she does feel a little better knowing Cicero will be keeping an eye on her. "I'm no good at flirting. What if I mess up? What if I overdo it?"

"If he's drunk enough it will not matter," Cicero says with a shrug. "Buy him a drink first and admire his arms, and then go from there."

"Gods," Lumen groans. "I'm going to make an ass of myself."

"Probably. But it cannot be any worse than what happened in Whiterun. At least there are no canals for you to stumble into." Cicero grins. "But, like I said, if he's drunk enough it will not matter. Besides, look at him. Sitting at the bar all by himself while everyone around him has someone to talk to. Cicero is certain he would appreciate it if a pretty elf bought him a drink and chatted with him for a bit."

"Let the record show that I object to this stupid plan," Lumen says, standing up and smoothing the wrinkles from her tunic.

"Duly noted," Cicero says, pressing a few gold pieces into her awaiting hand. "But, for the record, Cicero thinks you will do just fine."

" _Well that makes one of us, at least,"_ Lumen thinks as she weaves her way through the crowd, her eyes scanning over some of the newcomers. One in particular stands out to her; a Breton with white hair and amber eyes. An odd combination for a human, but not unheard of. The man is watching her curiously, but Lumen pays him little mind and turns her attention to Valdr. She slides onto the barstool beside him, laying her gold on the bar and ordering two drinks. When the drinks come, she slides a tankard toward him and says, "You look like you could use another."

Valdr stares at her, a bit surprised. "Well- thank you, miss."

"Don't mention it," Lumen says, feeling terribly awkward. "So, a little birdy told me something rather interesting about you."

"What did Narri say this time?" he asks gruffly, and takes a sip of his mead. "The only thing that girl is good for is gossiping."

"Oh, don't be angry with her," Lumen says, scooting a little closer to the man. "She told me you saw a group of hunters heading off into the forest, and well, the story was quite interesting and I'd like to hear it from the source rather than from her." She doesn't know if the hunters have anything to do with Arnbjorn, or if even the murdered child was his work or not, but she has little else to go on at the moment. Lumen just hopes this particular lead actually _leads_ her somewhere.

"Ah, well there's not much to tell, really," he says. "A group of hunters came through. All well armed and armored. This was a little over two weeks ago, mind you, and I never saw them again, which was odd."

"What's so odd about it? Wouldn't hunters stay in the forest for a while?"

Valdr shakes his head. "Not for that long. Most that come through will be back in town after a week to sell pelts and re-supply. So I got curious and I followed their tracks through the woods..."

"And?" Lumen presses on. "What did you find?"

Valdr furrows his brow, but there is the barest hint of a smile on his lips when he asks, "Now why would a nice girl like you want to know about all this?"

"I- um-" Lumen stammers, she hadn't expected any questions from the man. "I'm a hunter, of a sort, and I've heard rumors of all manner of interesting creatures in these woods. But if an entire hunting party really did vanish here, well… Maybe I'd like to avoid where they went," she says.

"That's understandable," Valdr says with a nod. "Well, I followed their tracks and they lead to a cave, but I didn't go in." He leans closer to her, his voice dropping low. "There isn't much that scares me, but that cave already has a reputation, and I could smell death on the wind."

"Where is it, exactly?" Lumen asks.

"It's just north of Lake Ilinalta," Valdr tells her. "You know- you shouldn't be in these woods alone, if you need a guide-"

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'll be fine," she says, pushing away from the bar, but Valdr's hand on her arm stops her.

"I insist," he says. "Let me guide you through the woods. I'd feel terrible if another person got lost or killed out there."

Lumen tugs her arm away from him. "That's very kind of you. But I won't be alone, and I doubt I'll get lost." She steps away from the disappointed man, and says, "Enjoy your mead." Before walking through the crowd and back to Cicero. Lumen glances around the room and discovers that the interesting looking Breton man is long gone, as are his traveling companions.

"Really, Lumen," Cicero laughs. "We need to work on your exit strategy. That poor man looks completely heartbroken."

"He'll survive," she says tersely. "He said the group of hunters have gone missing. He tracked them to a cave, but he didn't go in. It's somewhere north of the lake, so we'll head that way tomorrow."

"And if it turns out to be nothing?" Cicero asks. "What then?"

"I don't know." Lumen shrugs, exhaustion taking it's toll on her and making her crankier than she ought to be. "It's not as if we haven't been up shit creek before. Let's just hope we can find a paddle."

* * *

Morning comes entirely too soon. It's cool and cloudy, and Lumen would prefer to spend a morning like this in bed, rather than trudging through the pine forest. But Lumen has decided that sleep is something she won't be getting much of as long as she continues to share her bed with Cicero. When they get home, she plans to have a long talk with him about the importance of letting her sleep for more than just a few hours.

"So has my dearest Listener come up with a plan?" Cicero asks as the cave comes into view.

"I have," she says. "Assuming Arnbjorn is there, I think it would be best if he thinks I am alone. He might be more willing to listen to what I have to say if I am. However, I want you to follow me. But I need you to stay out of sight. Can you do that for me?"

Cicero nods enthusiastically. "Cicero can!"

"Good," she says, smiling softly. "I'll feel much better knowing you're watching my back."

They reach the mouth of the cave, both frowning at the scent of decay coming from within. "Lumen," Cicero begins, and she doesn't miss the way his voice wavers nervously. "I do not believe the Night Mother would send you to your death, but if Arnbjorn harms you in any way, I will not hesitate to kill him."

Lumen nods. Harming the Listener would be a violation of the tenets, after all, and Mother would understand. Of course, Lumen is certain the Night Mother would forgive Cicero anything. "Let's get this over with," she says, taking a deep breath to steel herself as she steps into the reeking cave. Luckily, the walk through the cave is brief, and after a few, nauseating minutes, the two assassins step out into a beautiful grotto on the other side.

There is a slight rustling of leaves behind her as Cicero vanishes into the trees to keep watch, and Lumen walks through the grotto, only stopping when she comes across a recently used campsite.

"Arnbjorn!" she calls out, wincing a little as her voice echoes off the nearby cliffs. "Hello? Are you here? I want to talk!"

Silence answers her, and she follows a faded path that leads her into a thicket of trees. The grotto is quieter here, and there's hardly a sound except for the occasional chirping of birds. " _What a strange place,"_ she muses. Despite the cave stinking of rotting flesh, the grotto smells as clean as a forest after a summer rain. The air is charged here, and Lumen can distinctly feel a prickle of magicka in the breeze. She's not terribly familiar with magic, and she can't cast to save her life, but she's willing to bet there are spriggans inhabiting this place.

The snapping of twigs yanks her from her thoughts, and she stops moving, standing perfectly still as she tries to discern the origin of the noise. "Cicero? Is that you?" she hisses upon hearing another crunch, though she doubts Cicero would be so loud. With her hand resting upon the hilt of her dagger, Lumen turns to step out of the trees and back into the relative safety of the clearing. At least nothing can sneak up on her there.

Her nerves are definitely starting to get to her, and she's only five paces from reaching the clearing when she hears another rustle in the trees. She launches herself forward, preferring to run the rest of the way, and she's almost out from beneath the shadows of the trees when something huge pounces on her her from behind, sending her face-first into the dead leaves strewn across the ground. Lumen has no time to react. There is an immense weight bearing down on her back, a large, calloused hand gripping her chin, and the other in her hair, twisting her neck at an uncomfortable angle.

"Elf," Arnbjorn growls, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. "Don't you know you're not supposed to run from a werewolf?" he asks. "It makes you prey."

"Good to know," she says in a strained voice. It's hard to talk with her neck twisted, and even harder to think as she truly begins to panic. Where in the Void is Cicero? She needs him now! In this position, it wouldn't take much effort for Arnbjorn to break her neck...

_"Oh, Sithis, I am so screwed."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, I feel like a terrible person for ending on a cliffhanger, but I should have the next chapter out pretty soon. I am sorry this one took me so long. I've been working a lot and I haven't had much time to write. But the next two months should slow down a little bit for me, so I do hope to get some more writing done! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Thanks for all the favs, follows and reviews! They keep me going! :)


	19. Mea Culpa

Arnbjorn's lips curl into a feral grin. Of all the prey he expected to encounter in the grotto, he never expected Lumen. Yet here she is, right in his grasp and mere seconds from death. Just a quick tug of his arms is all it will take to kill her.

"So what now?" he asks, his voice ragged with pleasure. He revels in her fear. The way she trembles beneath him, every frantic beat of her heart and every panicked breath calls out to his predatory nature and nearly tears his self-control to shreds. But he must wait. He's no base predator. He is wolf. He is curious and cunning and he has to know _why_ she's here. "I admit, the urge to snap your pretty, little neck is overwhelming. So answer quickly."

"Please don't," she gasps, her fingers curling into the damp, leafy earth beneath her. "Arnbjorn- we need to talk."

He eases his grip on her chin, if only to make it easier for the elf to speak for the time being. "We have nothing to say to each other," he growls.

"The Night Mother wants you to come home," she says, and Arnbjorn snorts derisively, but he doesn't interrupt her. "And I want to apologize."

A soft, half-hearted laugh escapes him. "You want to apologize?"

"Yes," she says, gritting her teeth. "For how I treated you."

Another unexpected development. Arnbjorn goes silent and still as he mulls over her words. He can hardly believe the contemptible elf wants to apologize to him. She certainly has a lot to answer for, and even though the temptation to end her miserable life is strong, he is willing to hear her out. So he releases his hold on her and stands up, moving away from her, and toward his small campsite. He sits down on a log in front of the banked fire pit, running his hands through his hair.

He glances up at Lumen when he hears her approach. "Arnbjorn," she begins, shifting her weight from foot-to-foot and wringing her hands together. "I um- I'm s-sorry for what I did- I should never have forced you to- to have sex with me, and-"

"Enough," he snaps. "I don't want your pity or your apologies."

"But-"

"But, nothing!" he snarls. "Do you really think any of that would've happened if I hadn't wanted it?"

"Um, yes?" Lumen sounds uncertain, but she seems determined to accept the blame for what happened between them in Dawnstar. Admirable, perhaps, but stupid.

He does laugh at that. "You're an idiot," he says, rather enjoying the way she deflates at such a weak insult. Really, he could say worse. "I could have overpowered you at any time, and as I recall, I did," he admits, frowning when memories of that disastrous night come flooding back. He'd struggled a bit, not wanting to cheat on his wife. But the elf had been so insistent and she was _right there_ and willing, and it had become difficult for Arnbjorn to resist. It was only when he'd begun to sober up did he realize that it was just a lie, and he'd become angry. Angry that he'd been so easily deceived and he'd taken that anger out on her. He isn't sure how Lumen interprets the events of that night, but… "Regardless of your actions, I should have stopped when you told me to."

"I-" Lumen stammers, clearly surprised that Arnbjorn is admitting to any fault in the matter. "I suppose we both treated each other pretty poorly, then."

"Yeah, I suppose we did." He looks away, preferring to watch a wild hare bound across the clearing rather than watch the elf fidget.

"So do you think we can move past all that?" she asks, and Arnbjorn notes that she still hasn't moved. She doesn't trust him. But that's probably for the best.

"I don't know," he says.

"Fair enough." Lumen takes a few breaths, as if she's starting to say something else, but then thinking better of it. Finally she says, "You're still welcome in the Brotherhood, you know. The Night Mother wants you to come home."

"Does she?" Arnbjorn asks, watching Lumen carefully to search for any sign of false pretense. He'll not be fooled by this damnable elf again. "And what do you want? Do you really want me there?"

"Of course she does!" Cicero calls out. The sound of his shrill voice is painful to Arnbjorn's sensitive ears. Metal scraping across slate would elicit a more pleasant sound than that damn jester. "You are the reason the sweet Listener _insisted_ we have a forge built in the new sanctuary!"

"For fuck's sake," Arnbjorn snarls, glaring at Lumen, then to Cicero. "What is _he_ doing here?"

Lumen ignores him, and rounds on Cicero, "Where were you, by the way? I needed you!"

"Cicero was here the entire time. Oh- Don't look at me like that, sweet Lumen! Cicero knew the shee- _our brother_ was only trying to scare you. He wasn't really going to break your neck or cause you any permanent damage."

Arnbjorn is tempted to tell Cicero just how wrong he is, but thinks better of it. The clown probably knows, and there's no reason to get the elf more worked up than she already is. "So- is that why you want me back? Because you need a smith?"

"No- Well, yes, sort of- but not entirely." Lumen takes a breath and begins to pace around the small campsite. "Look, I know what happened with Astrid was-"

"Don't!" Arnbjorn shouts, tired of revisiting the pain of losing his wife, even though he lost her long before she ever died. "I don't want to talk about her, or about what happened!"

"Y-you're still family. Still our brother," Lumen says quickly, changing the subject. "You still have a place in the Dark Brotherhood. A home."

"I have a home here," he says as he smoothes his hands across his daedric armor, which was made from Sinding's hide. A gift from Hircine. He considered the grotto to be a gift as well. There's plenty of game to hunt, and it's peaceful and quiet. Or it _was_ before Lumen and her pet clown showed up.

"But you don't have a family, do you?" Lumen asks, her voice soft and urging. "Life can be difficult for a lone wolf."

"I'm surviving just fine on my own," Arnbjorn snaps, then, in a calmer voice he says, "You never answered my question. I want to know what _you_ want. Do you want me to come back?" His eyes meet hers, and he can see how uncomfortable she is. It is satisfying, in a way, to be the cause of so much discomfort. But he wonders why. Is it because she doesn't want him around at all and she's only doing this because the Night Mother wills it? Or is it because she doesn't want to admit that she needs _him_ in any capacity? She may only need him because the Brotherhood needs a blacksmith. But the fact remains; Lumen needs him.

Her jaw tightens, and she hesitates for a few moments before saying, "Yes. I want you to come home."

Arnbjorn nods, feeling somewhat mollified. "Good. Because your armor looks like shit."

Cicero is bouncing on the balls of his feet, unable to stay quiet for any longer. "Cicero has some questions!"

"How many questions?" Lumen asks, eyeing Cicero suspiciously.

"Just three."

Lumen sighs, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. "All right," she mutters. "Ask."

"So-" Cicero turns his gaze to Arnbjorn. "Are we all friends again?"

"'Friends' is an awfully strong word," Arnbjorn growls, folding his arms.

"Are you coming home with us, brother? Mother will be so pleased," he says, then grins at Lumen. "As will the Listener."

"I don't know," he says. "I need to think about it."

Cicero smiles widely at that. "Okay, final question-" he motions between Arnbjorn and Lumen. "Cicero needs to know if this going to be a friends-with-benefits arrangement."

"Oh, Sithis." Lumen covers her face with her hands, the tips of her ears blushing pink. "What is _wrong_ with you?!"

"No," Arnbjorn says firmly. Maybe he should just stick with his original plan and kill them both. It would make his life so much easier. "No, it is not."

"Ah, well. You cannot blame me for being curious, can you?" he purrs, smirking at Lumen, who is casting an icy glare his way. "For what it's worth, Cicero is willing to leave the past in the past. Let bygones be bygones and all that. I hope you come home with us, brother."

Arnbjorn grunts, wondering exactly what he should do. Even if he wanted to, he could never go back to the Companions. Kodlak would never allow it. He did briefly consider going to them with a peace offering; leading the Companions to the Dark Brotherhood. They'd take him back after that, surely. But he just couldn't betray the Brotherhood. He could care less about the clown, and he doesn't know how to feel about the elf, but Nazir and Babette are the least annoying of the bunch. He doesn't like anyone, but he was always able to tolerate their presence fairly well.

Learning to tolerate Cicero and Lumen is going to be a different matter entirely…

* * *

Uraccen peers around the trunk of a moss covered tree, and signals to his contingent of Forsworn warriors. They move swiftly through the trees in the strange, enchanted grotto. Their soft-soled boots allowing them to move so silently that even the elf cannot hear them.

"The Nord is a werewolf," Kaie whispers in his ear. "I say we just kill that one. Surely Madanach could care less about the Nord shifter."

"No." Uraccen shakes his head. "Our orders are clear. The elf and her companion are to be captured, not killed."

"Yes, companion," Kaie says tersely. " _Singular_. As in, the elf and the jester. The Nord is a new development, and Madanach will not thank us for bringing a werewolf into his camp."

"Have you not been listening to their conversation?" he asks, his voice steady and calm. "The Nord is also her companion. Paralysis spells will be enough to keep him from shifting for now, and Liadan might have a more long-term solution if we need one."

"Fine," Kaie sighs. She's clearly still uncomfortable with the idea of dealing with a werewolf, and Uraccen is too. But he's not so uncomfortable with it that he would risk Madanach's wrath or one of Delphine's cold glares, and who knows how the Dragonborn would react to having a companion killed. Probably not very well, and if everything Delphine told him about the elf is to be believed, he'd rather not incur her wrath either.

Uraccen turns to the group of Forsworn who are quietly, and patiently awaiting their orders. "You know the plan. Hit them with paralysis spells first, then restrain them. The elf needs to be gagged if she can truly Shout."

Kaie snorts. "Does Delphine really expect us to believe the elf can use that- _Nord_ voice magic? A Wood Elf Shouting like the Nords in the old tales… It just seems so far-fetched."

"Delphine believes it, and Madanach believes her," Uraccen says firmly. "That's good enough for me. Are you ready?"

"I'm ready," Kaie says, not bothering to hide the reluctance in her voice.

Uraccen signals for the Forsworn to attack, and as they leave the cover of the trees there are paralysis spells firing through the air at their unsuspecting targets. The Nord and the Bosmer are hit, but the jester saw them before his other two companions ever did and he gives them some trouble. He's fast, but it's ten against one and eventually a paralysis spell makes contact. Afterwards, the three targets are bound; their arms tied behind their backs and their ankles cinched together with rope. Despite being paralyzed, the look in the Bosmer's eyes when she is gagged can only be described as murderous.

"I am sorry, miss," Uraccen says to her as he inspects their binds. "But your voice is rumored to be deadly." The elf growls, and he reasons it's probably for the best that he cannot hear what she has to say, or what names she's probably calling him. Instead, he addresses the rest of the Forsworn gathered there. "Get them to the cart. If we hurry we can reach Karthspire by nightfall."

* * *

Lumen cannot remember a time when she'd been so humiliated. She is the Listener, and the gods damned Dragonborn, and she should not be tied to a stake and gagged! Ever! Yet, here she is, sitting in the dirt with her hands bound behind her, tied to a large stake with Cicero to her right and Arnbjorn to her left. The paralysis spells have worn off, the magical residue leaving her skin itchy. Cicero is quietly brooding, which does not bode well for anyone, and Arnbjorn hasn't said a word since a Forsworn woman tied a small bit of rope around his neck. The rope has thin silver strands woven into it to keep Arnbjorn from shifting, which is probably for the best. Lumen can feel the anger coming off of him in waves, and if he did shift, she's fairly certain that she and Cicero would be his first victims.

It feels like they've been sitting and waiting for hours. Lumen is bored and uncomfortable, and she'd really like the chance to stretch her legs. Finally, a group approaches them, and Cicero, who had been eerily quiet, begins to shriek.

"Unhand Cicero and his sweet Lumen right now!" he cries, and Lumen winces from the volume of his voice. "Do as Cicero says and perhaps he will show you mercy!"

Lumen means to tell Cicero to be quiet, but with the gag, she sounds more like an angry cat than a fierce Dragonborn. The sound, it seems, only serves to rile Cicero further.

"Oh, my poor Lumen! Her lovely mouth _bound_ and her beautiful voice _muted_! It is a tragedy!" Cicero howls, and Lumen swears on all that is holy and unholy that she will strangle the jester when she finally gets her hands free. "Never fear, dearest! Cicero shall defend your honor!"

"She never had any to begin with!" Arnbjorn snarls, finally breaking his silence when he is unable to take anymore of Cicero's shouting.

"I expect you three would like to be untied, hmm?" A familiar voice cuts through the shouting of the two men at her sides, and Lumen looks up to find herself face-to-face with Delphine. "Hello, Lumen," Delphine says. "It's been a while."

"Cicero remembers you!" he says. "You're the brutish woman who manhandled my sweet Lumen, and forced her to go to the Thalmor embassy all by herself!"

Delphine frowns at Cicero, but turns her attention back to Lumen. "I'll remove the gag if you promise not to Shout anyone on this camp," she tells her, smiling wider than Lumen has ever seen her do. No doubt she's loving the sight of Lumen tied up and helpless considering how bitter their last encounter had been.

Lumen nods, sighing in relief when Delphine removes the gag. "Are you going to untie me?" she asks.

"I don't have the authority to do so," Delphine says as two Forsworn warriors approach. "The Forsworn don't trust you. So you and your, uh- _friends_ here need to speak to the leader of the camp. If he determines that you three are no threat to his people, then they will remove your binds."

"Sounds fair," Lumen mutters. She's not about to start making demands when she's tied up and surrounded by Forsworn on all sides. "So… They're not going to kill us?"

"Probably not," Delphine says, the corner of her mouth quirking further upwards. "But they will if you three try anything stupid."

"We'll be on our best behavior," Lumen says, and Arnbjorn grunts in what she supposes is agreement.

"Oh, yes!" Cicero chirps, grinning up at Delphine. "Cicero will be a perfect, little Aedra!"

Delphine eyes him warily. "See that you are," she says, and the Forsworn warriors lead the bound assassins through the camp.

Lumen doesn't know how Delphine managed to get an in with the Forsworn, but the woman is as resourceful as she is stubborn. Maybe she will ask Delphine about it later on. For now, Lumen settles for admiring how large the camp is. There are tents everywhere, and various fire pits with roasting spits, and multiple families gathered around. All of whom are staring at the strange group being lead through the camp. She can't blame them for staring. A Bosmer, a jester, and a werewolf all walk into a Forsworn camp… it sounds like the beginning of one of Cicero's jokes.

She just hopes they'll all live to hear the end of it.

* * *

Uraccen slips into Madanach's tent. It's not as large and as stately as a Jarl's Longhouse, but it's good enough for the leader of the Forsworn. There's room enough for a table and chairs, a bed, and a chest. Plenty of room for weapons and books. _Lots_ of books. By the gods, Madanach had missed having access to proper reading material during his time in Cidhna Mine, and he'd been making up for it ever since.

"Well?" Madanach asks, setting a copy of The Ransom of Zarek aside. "Are our guests on their way?"

"They are," Uraccen nods, stepping closer to Madanach and lowering his voice. "There is something you need to know-" he pauses, considering his words. "Something Delphine should _not_ know."

"Ooh, a secret. I love secrets." Madanach grins. "What is it?"

"I overheard our three guests speaking before we captured them. I believe they are with the Brotherhood," Uraccen says, unable to keep from smiling when he sees the grin on Madanach's face grow even wider and more menacing.

"Are you certain?" he asks.

Uraccen nods. "With terms like 'Night Mother' and 'Listener' being thrown around, I can't imagine what else they could be a part of. Can you?"

Madanach laughs at that. "No wonder Delphine had such a hard time tracking that elf down. If the rumors out there are true, it seems like our little elven guest has been rather busy as of late." He taps his chin, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "And you don't think Delphine should know?" he asks, even though he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Delphine can't know any of this. She might be able to live comfortably among rebels, but Madanach doubts she could handle living among assassins as well. As it is, he's had to keep the more unsavory aspects of Forsworn life a secret from Delphine. The woman is impressive in her own right, but she is also the most uptight Breton he's ever come across.

"I certainly don't want to be the one to tell her that her precious Dragonborn is an assassin," Uraccen says. "Worse yet is that word on the street is that the Brotherhood is responsible for the death of the Emperor."

"Mede certainly never did the Blades any favors," Madanach tells him. "I doubt Delphine would mourn his death."

"Even still…"

"I know, I know." Madanach waves his hand in the air, dismissing Uraccen's worries. "We keep this between us. Does anyone else in the camp know?"

"Kaie, but she won't say anything." Uraccen casts his gaze toward the tent flap, licking his lips nervously. "I don't mind having a group of assassins in the camp, they usually don't kill unless they are paid to do so. But I don't like having a Nord, let alone a werewolf, so close by."

"Mm." Madanach nods in agreement. "I don't like it either. But Liadan's rope should be enough to control the Nord's affliction."

"You have faith in her abilities?" Uraccen asks quietly.

"I'm not about to question them, that's for damn sure," Madanach says with a laugh. "I would suggest that you do the same. Never question a hagraven, Uraccen. It's bad for your health."

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, then glances through the tent opening when he hears movement outside. "Ah, it looks like your honored guests have arrived. Shall I send them all in?"

"Go ahead," Madanach says, standing up to greet his guests as Uraccen waves them in. The Bosmer steps inside first. A pretty, little thing with her honey-colored eyes narrowed in suspicion. Good, good. Madanach will get along with her just fine. Next is the Nord, dressed in leather and furs. With his unkempt, long hair and cold, silver eyes, Madanach would be surprised if the man _weren't_ a werewolf. A short Imperial follows along behind him. His appearance is a little off-putting, even to a hardened Forsworn warrior. Intelligent, unblinking eyes, shockingly red hair and dressed in a jester's motley.

Uraccen stops Delphine and the guards from entering, quietly telling them that Madanach wants some privacy with their guests. They agree, however he can hear the reluctance in Delphine's voice. Once the guards and Delphine have wandered away, Uraccen stands guard at the entrance of the tent, nodding at Madanach when they finally have a modicum of privacy.

"Welcome to Karthspire," Madanach says, grinning at his guests. "I'm sure you've worked out why you're here, and if you can promise to keep the peace, then I will untie the three of you." He turns to Arnbjorn. "Unfortunately for you, Nord, that rope will need to remain around your neck until you and your friends leave the camp. Is that understood?"

"I'll gladly leave the camp now," he says. "I have no business here."

"What? No!" Lumen says, turning to face him. "We're not done discussing, um-" she glances at Madanach, unwilling to say much in front of him. "We still need to _talk_ , Arnbjorn."

"Do we?" he sneers at the elf. "It's bad enough that you and that idiot clown hunted me down, but then I get captured by the Forsworn because you've done something to piss them off-"

"That's not it at all," Madanach interjects. "If we were angry, you three would be dead. Live prisoners are a waste of time and resources. And you aren't prisoners, you're guests. We tracked the Dragonborn down because Delphine needs her help."

"Be that as it may," Arnbjorn says firmly. "I don't want to be here, and I don't want to talk to _you_ anymore." He narrows his eyes at the Bosmer, who doesn't even flinch. "I told you I would think about coming home. I haven't decided, yet."

"Tell you what," Madanach says, signaling for Uraccen to cut their bonds. "Why don't you stay here tonight? I only need to speak with the Dragonborn for a few minutes, then you two can have the rest of the night to work out your personal issues." Personal issues that will be eavesdropped upon by one of his warriors. He needs to know more about the guests staying in his camp, and he doubts they will willingly offer information about themselves, so he'll have to take it instead.

The Nord grumbles to himself and folds his arms when they are finally free, and the jester bounds toward Madanach once his ropes are cut. "Oh, thank you so much, kind sir! Cicero never knew the Forsworn were so hospitable to outsiders!"

Madanach makes a point to not back away from the strange man, but he doesn't bother to hide his frown when he looks down at him. The jester unsettles him in a way very few people do. It's impressive. "We usually aren't. But Delphine is a friend and I'm doing a favor for her."

"How do you know Delphine?" Lumen asks, rubbing at her now unbound wrists. "Just who are you, anyway? Are you her big brother? Her crazy uncle? I had no idea she was even involved with the Forsworn."

"How Delphine and I met is a long story, and one that I will let her tell," Madanach says, laughing at the Bosmer's questions. "As for who I am, well, the name's Madanach."

That gets the Nord's attention. "Madanach? The leader of the Forsworn rebellion?" he asks skeptically. "Aren't you supposed to be-"

"Dead? Imprisoned? Things change," Madanach says. It's always flattering when someone recognizes his name. But after spending so many years in the mine, and now living as a fugitive, he dislikes having too much attention focused toward him. "And you are the Dragonborn, supposedly." He smiles at Lumen before looking at Arnbjorn, then to Cicero. "And you two are her- friends, I take it?" Granted, 'friends' may not be the right word considering how the Nord keeps glaring at her.

"Oh, sweet Cicero is more than lovely Lumen's friend," the jester purrs, slipping his arms around the Bosmer and lasciviously grinning up at her. "Cicero is the deadly Dragonborn's lover."

Arnbjorn just shakes his head, as if he doesn't understand the Bosmer's attraction to the strange, little man. Madanach doesn't either, but he's not one to judge. It takes all kinds. "All right then, Dragonborn. You, your lover, and your surly Nord companion here are all welcome at our camp. But on one condition..."

"Which is?" Lumen asks, trying to untangle herself from the jester's crushing embrace.

"The real reason why I agreed to help Delphine find you," Madanach says with a grin, loving how the elf actually looks worried. "There are ruins here at Karthspire. Did you happen to notice the temple on top of the mountain?"

"No," Lumen says. "I was kind of busy thinking I was going to die horribly at the hands of the Forsworn."

"Cicero was thinking of an entirely different scenario, but it did involve plenty of Forsworn and rope," he adds, only to be shushed by Lumen.

Madanach chooses to ignore the jester's comment, and he has a feeling he'll be doing quite a lot of that. "Well, at the top of the mountain is Sky Haven Temple. It's sacred to the Blades, and while Delphine and her elderly friend have tried to get into the temple without you, it's impossible. Apparently there are some doors that can only be opened by you, Dragonborn."

"So… You kidnapped me because of _that_?" Lumen asks. "Because of a ruin?"

"That's it in a nutshell." Madanach nods. "We wouldn't have had to resort to kidnapping if you had actually shown up like Delphine had requested."

"I was busy," Lumen sniffs.

"And I was tired of waiting," he growls, stepping closer to the elf. He's not a tall man, most Bretons aren't, but he's just tall enough so that he can look her in the eyes without having to boost himself up on his toes. "I've been waiting and _rotting_ in Cidhna Mine for the last twenty years, and after a week of _nothing_ , I grew very tired of waiting for an irresponsible Dragonborn to show up and do her duty."

Lumen sneers at him. "I had duties elsewhere which were much more pressing than helping you find your way inside some dusty, old ruin."

Madanach grins at her, his voice dropping low when he says, "Really? Did those aforementioned duties involve the assassination of an emperor? Oh, don't look so surprised, little elf. I know the three of your are with the Brotherhood, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't waste time trying to deny it."

"The Forsworn king knows too much," Cicero hisses in Lumen's ear, while keeping a wary eye on Madanach.

"Don't worry," he begins, trying, and failing, to not to sound so pleased with himself. "I won't tell Delphine. In fact, I won't tell a soul, and neither will he." He motions to Uraccen. "A Forsworn knows the value of keeping a secret, but I will say that I am much better at keeping secrets when I am happy, and do you know what would make me happy?"

"Piddling around in some musty, old ruin?" Lumen asks, her voice flat. "I don't appreciate being coerced, you know."

"This isn't coercion," he purrs. "It's a favor for a favor. I'll keep your secret as long as you help me keep my promise to Delphine." And to satisfy his own, burning curiosity about what's in the ruin, but Lumen doesn't need to know that.

"Fine," she sighs. "So when do you want to go? Now?"

Madanach laughs. "No, tonight we celebrate. Tomorrow we explore the ruin." He looks to Uraccen and says, "Take care of our guests, will you? Find them a place to sleep, something for dinner and, if they're nice, share a little of the latest brew with them."

"It would be my pleasure." Uraccen nods, then he turns to address their guests. "Follow me."

* * *

"I do apologize for all the tying up," Uraccen says, as he leads the three assassins to one of the many bonfires in the camp, only this area is far away from the families and closer to the soldiers. They're not prisoners anymore. Not exactly. But it's clear they are being watched very closely. "No hard feelings, I hope?"

Lumen shrugs, still angry about being captured, gagged, and then blackmailed by the leader of the bloody Forsworn. But she supposes she should be glad those are the only indignities she suffered at the hands of the Forsworn. "Madanach said you all are celebrating tonight," she says, turning to Uraccen. "What are you celebrating?"

"Freedom." The silver-haired Forsworn grins at her, then motions to a tent. "We only have one tent to spare, so I hope you three don't mind sharing close quarters. Your traveling packs are inside, and there's a river down the way if you'd like a bath."

"So, Arnbjorn, do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?" Cicero asks him, grinning mischievously.

"Cicero!" Lumen hisses, casting a worried glance Arnbjorn's way. What is that jester thinking? Is he trying to chase him off?

"I'll take my chances outside," Arnbjorn snarls at Cicero, then steps away from the group, settling on the ground with his back against a juniper tree.

Uraccen watches the group with open interest, then says, "I'll let Delphine know you're done speaking with Madanach, I think she'd like to talk to you as well. Is there anything else you might need before I go?"

"No, thank you," Lumen says, looking the man up and down, and making no effort to hide it. With his cultured voice and calm demeanor, he'd be perfect as a steward in an opulent palace. Instead, he spends his time on a Forsworn camp, and catering to their rebel-king. Interesting. Lumen wouldn't mind knowing the story behind that some day. "Actually, wait- where is that river, again?"

"Just down the hill there," he says, motioning to an area past a row of pine trees. His mouth curves further up on one side, the mischievous grin somehow making the Breton even more handsome than he already is. "I can help you find your way if you like."

She wonders if that is a genuine offer of help, or an invitation of some kind. Lumen shakes her head, feeling suddenly shy and wondering what in the world is wrong with her. "I think I can manage on my own."

After Uraccen takes his leave, Lumen walks down to the river. Cicero follows along behind her, humming softly in the hazy, evening half-light. Once they reach the river bank, Lumen turns toward Cicero and punches him hard in the arm.

"Ow!" he shrieks, rubbing his assaulted arm. "What was that for?"

"You know damn well what that's for!" Lumen snaps, her voice a bit louder than she means for it to be, but she's been stewing in anger for most of the day. "What were you thinking? I can't believe you asked Arnbjorn if we were going to have a friends-with-benefits arrangement!"

Cicero frowns at her, not appreciating being yelled at. "It seemed like a valid question!"

"Well, it isn't!" Things are hard enough now that she's starting to see Arnbjorn as a person, rather than just Astrid's husband, or the resident blacksmith. The last thing she needs is Cicero making things even more awkward than they already are, and she doesn't want to think of anything remotely sexual when it comes to Arnbjorn. It's too weird.

"You could have just _said_ that," he says tersely. "And Cicero would appreciate it if you did not abuse him just because you are feeling conflicted."

"I'm not feeling conflicted about anything!" she growls, kicking a pine cone in frustration. "You've been teasing him relentlessly, and I don't want him to get sick of it and decide not to come home!"

"Bah." Cicero waves his hand in the air. "Cicero teases _everyone_ and he is not about to give Arnbjorn any special treatment. Besides, he's no wilting flower. He's not going to run away just because Cicero had a little fun at his expense."

"Yeah? Well do me a favor and rein it in a bit," Lumen says, holding Cicero's gaze.

"Why are you coddling him? Hmm? Cicero would like to know," he says, folding his arms and looking surprisingly intimidating for someone who is a few inches shorter than she is.

"Because I-"

"Have feelings for him?"

"What?! No! Gods, no! I just don't want to fail Mother! Wait a second- are you jealous?"

"Of the dog? No. Never." Cicero snorts, and turns away from her. "Cicero cannot believe you would think such a thing."

Lumen grins. "You are!" she laughs. She's not sure why the thought of Cicero being jealous of Arnbjorn is so amusing. But it is. It's actually rather endearing, in a way. Lumen reaches for him, her fingertips gently skimming along his sharp jawline and coaxing him to look at her, he does, and she takes his face in her hands and presses a kiss to his lips. "There is nothing to be jealous of."

"Cicero is not-" he starts to protest, but Lumen silences him with another kiss.

"Just promise me that you'll behave? Please?" she asks.

"Oh, very well," he sighs, wrinkling his nose and looking as if this is the most distasteful thing he's ever agreed to. "I will leave the dog be… For now."

"Thank you," she says. "Now come on, let's see what we can scrounge up for dinner. I'm starving."

"I thought you came down here to bathe," Cicero says, falling into step behind Lumen.

"No. I came down here so I could yell at you in private," she tells him, then pauses. "Why? Do I stink?"

"Your attitude certainly does," he mutters.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing, sweet Lumen!" he chirps. "Nothing at all! Cicero is right behind you!"

When the two assassins make it back to camp, Delphine is already there. With her is an elderly Nord and a middle-aged Bosmer. The Nord hands Arnbjorn a bowl of stew, before sitting on a log and tucking into his own.

"Ah, there you are," Delphine says, then motions to two bowls of stew sitting near the campfire. "I hope you don't mind a little conversation with your dinner. We need to talk."

"I don't see that I have much of a choice in the matter," Lumen says, sitting down near the fire and grabbing a bowl. The stew is a flavorful concoction of duck, garlic, wild mushrooms and other herbs. "You know, if you needed to get into that temple so badly, you could have just told me. Written me a letter like the civilized woman that you are, rather than having me kidnapped."

Delphine smiles wryly at Lumen. "Sky Haven Temple is important, but it's more important that you hear what Esbern has to say, _Dragonborn_."

Lumen turns her gaze toward the elderly Nord. "You're Esbern, I take it?"

"I am." he nods and sets his empty bowl aside. "And if you're truly the Dragonborn, then maybe we- maybe we have time."

"Time?" Lumen tilts her head in confusion. "What are you talking about? We have all the time in the world, don't we?"

"Do you remember the black dragon we saw at Kynesgrove?" Delphine asks. "The one that brought the other one to life?"

Lumen shivers. "How could I forget?" she asks. She had tried her best to drink the memories of that day into Oblivion. A dragon, bringing other dragons back to life. He even had the audacity to personally insult her! It's not everyday one is insulted by a dragon. "So what about him?"

"He is Alduin the World Eater, and he is the eldest son of Akatosh. He is a god in his own right. Immortal, and immensely powerful, and it is he who arrives at the end of time to eat the world. He is here, now, in our time, and if he has his way, the world will end very soon," Esbern says, looking rather nonchalant for a man who is delivering such terrible news.

A hush falls over the group, and Arnbjorn is the one to break the uncomfortable silence. "The end of the world? That seems pretty unlikely," he says. "Every few years there's some old nutjob preaching about how the end times are drawing near, and guess what? The world never ends. I don't see how this is any different."

"I am used to people calling me mad when I try to warn them. No one ever wants to think about the end, but the end is here! It is Alduin's destiny to destroy the world." Esbern turns to Lumen, his face as grim as the news he's imparting. "And it is the Dragonborn's destiny to stop him."

"There's got to be some kind of mistake," Lumen says quickly. Because she refuses to believe it. It's ridiculous. It's beyond surreal. Auriel's son is in Mundus, and it's her job to stop him and therefore stop the end of the world? It has to be a joke. A fluke. It _cannot_ be true. Her destiny is to Listen and nothing more! "Assuming this _is_ true, there's probably some other Dragonborn out there who is more suited to all this dragon killing," she says, her voice pleading. "Someone who isn't me."

Delphine looks as if she wishes that were true. "There is only ever one Dragonborn alive at a time, and I'm afraid that's you, Lumen," she says, almost sounding sympathetic. "I know this sounds crazy, but I trust Esbern and I value his knowledge. If he says Alduin has returned, then I believe him."

"No," she gasps, feeling like she might faint. "Don't you dare do this to me. I can't do this. I can't be expected to fight some dragon god, and I don't need the fate of the fucking world resting on my shoulders!"

"Why do you think you can take dragons' souls?" Delphine asks her, deadly serious. "Why do you think you can Shout?"

"I don't know! A lot of seriously weird shit has happened to me ever since I stepped foot in this godsforsaken country! I just stopped questioning it after a while!"

"It's because you've been blessed by Akatosh," Esbern says. "You have the Dragon's Blood and only you can kill a dragon for good by taking its soul. You are the only one who stands a chance of defeating Alduin."

"Oh, gods," Lumen groans, setting her bowl down and burying her face in her hands. She doesn't want any of this to be true. But she remembers when the Greybeards called her, she even remembers two, very brief, and very cold visits to High Hrothgar. Once to train with them, and then again to deliver the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, and that had been the last time she saw them. After that, she'd been content to put the Dragonborn business behind her, assuming it was mainly just soul taking and Shouting and not much more. She certainly never thought it would involve killing a god and saving the damn world! She's an assassin! She's the damn Listener of the Dark Brotherhood! She's the vessel through which the Night Mother communicates with the rest of her children. Of all the truly good, decent, and heroic people in the world, why would Auriel choose _her_? "The Divines must be crazy," she murmurs. "I am the _worst_ possible choice for this."

Arnbjorn snorts. "I have to agree with you on that. Because if the fate of the world really is resting in your hands, then we are all well and truly fucked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where the main quest story arc begins. Don't worry, it won't be a complete re-hash. Lumen will still be focused on her Brotherhood duties. ;) She just has, um, other problems to deal with now. Like Arnbjorn and dragons, and I am not sure which is worse. I know a lot of the fandom tends to dislike poor Arnbjorn, but I actually think he's a really interesting character with tons of potential once you yank him out from under Astrid's shadow. So I hope you all don't mind seeing a little more of him. :)
> 
> I hope the Akatosh/Auriel thing is not too confusing. Lumen refers to Akatosh as Auriel because she was raised by a Thalmor Justiciar. Therefore, the Altmeri Pantheon is the one that is familiar to her.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! :)


	20. When it rains, it pours

"Lumen? Are you still pouting?" Cicero's question is met with a growl. "Ah, yes. Still pouting, then." After Delphine and Esbern explained what his dear Listener's Dragonborn status meant for her, she retired to their tent, crawled under the sleeping furs, and proceeded to sulk. "There's no need to be so upset. Cicero thinks the Blades' story is a wee bit far fetched- the end of the world is not for a dragon to decide. But if this Alduin needs to die, who better than a Dark Brotherhood assassin to do the deed?"

Lumen peeks out from the pile of furs, her face pinched in a fierce scowl. "Who better? Oh, I don't know, how about an actual warrior? How about the entirety of fucking Jorrvaskr? How about _anyone_ but me!" she snaps. "I've never even killed a dragon on my own! I usually just stand back and let everyone else do all the work!"

"Ah, that does sound like something you would do," Cicero says, grinning as her scowl deepens. "Perhaps you can use that same method to kill Alduin, hmm?"

"Maybe," she says weakly, finally coming out from under the furs. "So you think the whole end-of-the-world thing is a bit far fetched, too?"

Cicero quirks a brow at her. If his sweet Listener is of a same mind as he, then she would not have spent the last hour pouting, but he won't tell her that. "He is just a dragon, right?"

"A dragon with the ability to resurrect other dragons," she says. "And he's… kinda scary, to be honest. Scarier than a normal dragon at any rate."

"Eh, that does not mean he can destroy the world," he sniffs. "Or _eat_ it, as his full name would imply. The end is for Sithis to decide. He is chaos. Change. He existed long before anything else, and certainly longer than some dragon."

"Why would a deity that represents chaos be venerated by a group of assassins, anyway?" Lumen asks hesitantly. "Why not a deity that represents death?"

Cicero exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tense. "Death is change, is it not? And assassins are bringers of change," he says quietly, doing his best to keep his annoyance at bay. Lumen's ignorance of the Dark Brotherhood's history truly does aggravate him to no end, and sometimes he is jealous that someone who knows next-to-nothing and has sacrificed next-to-nothing for the Brotherhood is the Night Mother's chosen. But Cicero is nothing if not loyal, and he'll not question the Night Mother's choices. Nor will he allow a little, petty jealousy to cloud his judgment.

Being jealous of the Listener is infinitely more acceptable than being jealous of Arnbjorn. Which he is _not_ , and he wishes Lumen would give him the chance to explain.

He doesn't trust the dog. He doesn't even _like_ the dog. The Night Mother may want him back, but Cicero is fairly certain that Mother only meant for Lumen to _try_ , rather than to risk her own personal safety dragging the dog back at all costs. The entire situation has been highly stressful for poor Cicero, and he feels much better when he harasses Arnbjorn. Unfortunately, Lumen put a stop to his fun. Making comments isn't the worst Cicero could do. If the Night Mother didn't want the dog back, Cicero would gladly put the mangy beast down. He tried to kill Cicero, and threatened his Listener on more than one occasion. But Lumen seems content to ignore the danger staring her in the eyes, and for what? It's more than just her desire to please Mother, that's for certain.

"That makes sense," Lumen says, her voice pulling Cicero from his ruminations. She speaks softly and slowly, thinking aloud. "Kill one person, and so many things change. Maybe it seems insignificant at first, like dropping a pebble into a pond. But that small pebble creates a ripple, and the ripple spreads across the water, and the surface is changed."

Cicero nods, a swell of pride blooming in his chest. Not so ignorant after all, his Listener. But she still has much to learn. "Something like that," he says. "And some pebbles will cause bigger ripples than others. The death of a beggar may only change the course of a few lives, while the death of a king will change many."

"I don't know much about Sithis, or the aedra and daedra for that matter. Mother was never one for religion," she says, tucking some hair behind her ear. "If she worshiped anything, it was gold."

"For what it's worth, Sithis is not so easy to explain, nor is he easy to understand. There are many ways he could be described, in fact. He is the cold of space. The terror of midnight-"

"But midnight isn't terrifying at all."

"It is just a figure of speech. May Cicero continue?"

"Yes, yes," she mutters. "Sorry."

"Anyway, Sithis came before the aedra and daedra, and is the one who brought all of creation into being. Therefore, Cicero does not believe any other power can destroy it."

Lumen nods slowly. "Well maybe Alduin can't destroy creation itself," she says. "Maybe just Nirn?"

Cicero shrugs. "Still, he is just a dragon. And dragons are scary in their own right. Even I have seen them since I have been in Skyrim. For some reason, the foul beasts are attracted to Dawnstar like moths to a flame. And while they can breathe fire and they have the rather unfair advantage of flight, he does not think one dragon can destroy Nirn-" he pauses, remembering that Lumen told him Alduin could resurrect his fallen brethren. "But, Nirn might not fare so well against an army of them."

"Damn," Lumen growls, folding her arms and sulking like a petulant child. "I still don't understand why Auriel can't spank his firstborn. Why do I have to do it?"

Cicero snorts. "When have the aedra ever done anything for themselves?"

Lumen lifts her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, but says nothing. The two assassins fall silent, both in an unspoken agreement that this particular line of conversation needs to end, lest they begin to question their own god. But their god is not so silent anymore, is he? Sithis may be a distant, faraway father to his many children. But the Night Mother is near, and she whispers her children's prayers into the Listener's knife-sharp ears. Ears that fascinate Cicero, and he reaches for her to trace the edge of her ear. An absent-minded gesture, perhaps. But it has Lumen's mouth curving into a small, curious smile.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says, biting his lip and grinning when a gentle flick of his finger across her ear lobe makes her shiver.

Lumen twists away from him, swatting his hand away and laughing. "Stop that! Play with your own ears!"

"But Cicero would rather play with your pretty ears," he says. "They are more interesting than his own."

"I don't even understand how humans can hear anything with such stubby, demented ears."

Cicero cackles. "I have never heard them described like that!" Cicero's bottom lip juts out in a mock pout. "Do you think poor Cicero has demented ears?"

"All humans do, and you are no exception." Lumen tilts her head, smiling mischievously. "They are demented, but they suit you," she says, patting his cheek.

Cicero is not sure if that is meant as a compliment or an insult, but he'll go with the former. "So now that you are done sulking, are you willing to come out and talk to Delphine? She told Cicero that the key to defeating Alduin could be stashed away in the temple, which is why it's so important."

"Oh, I'm not done sulking," Lumen says, her lips twisting in a wry smile. "I'm just taking a break."

* * *

Lumen pushes the tent flap aside and steps out into the chilly, evening air, with Cicero following behind her. The rest of their little group is gathered around the large fire pit. The white-haired Bosmer, who had introduced himself as Faendal, is humming quietly and running a whetstone across a small dagger. Esbern is trying in to make conversation with Arnbjorn, who seems to be indulging the old man for the moment.

"Everything all right?" Delphine rises from where she was sitting on a log near the fire, and steps toward Lumen. Her brows are knitted together in worry, and her voice softer than Lumen has ever heard it.

"Fine," Lumen says awkwardly, she'd been prepared for a shouting match with Delphine, but the Breton's obvious concern has taken her off guard. "I'm just fine. It was- a lot to take in."

"I can imagine," Delphine says. "Will you go on a walk with me? I'd like to talk to you alone, if your little shadow will allow it."

"Cicero will do whatever his sweet Li- Lumen commands." He smiles up at her. Lumen knows that smile well, that dangerous expression that almost always means Cicero is up to no good.

"Stay here, and behave yourself," she says firmly, knowing all too well what Arnbjorn might do to Cicero if he annoys him too much. She'd rather not think of how the Forsworn might handle her little madman. "I'll be back shortly."

The two women walk through the impressively large Forsworn encampment, and Lumen pretends like she didn't hear Cicero's claim of " _But Cicero always behaves!"_ Lying to the Listener is probably a punishable offense.

"So…" Delphine begins, fumbling for the right words to break the silence with. "You have some interesting companions."

Lumen huffs a laugh. "You're one to talk. I can't believe you've befriended the Forsworn," she says as they pass by a small fire pit, where a new father attempts to soothe his crying child. It is strange to see people she thought were little more than bloodthirsty savages doing such normal things.

"It wasn't easy," Delphine says slowly. "They don't trust outsiders. They have been welcoming to Faendal and myself, but it took them a bit longer to warm up to Esbern."

"So is that what you wanted to talk to me about? We could have stayed near the fire for this."

"No, it's not," Delphine admits, stopping next to a hastily built corral containing a few goats and a lone, ratty-looking chicken. "I know we've not always seen eye-to-eye, and it probably always seems like I'm asking you for one favor after another. I've been a Blade for so long, I think I've forgotten how to be anything else, but as a Blade I am sworn to protect you and to serve you-" a pause. "Within reason, of course."

"Right." Lumen leans against the fence, her eyes on the goats ambling around the corral. "I'm not trying to be rude, but where are you going with this?"

Delphine bites her lip. "I never realized quite what I was asking of you when I asked you to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy. I would have, had you been a more forthright with me."

"Trust does not come easily for me," Lumen says, mirroring Delphine's earlier words about the Forsworn.

"I know," Delphine says, sighing as she pulls a folded piece of parchment from her pocket. "A few days ago, a small group of Thalmor passed very near the camp. Too near, in fact, and they were quickly disposed of."

Lumen eyes flick from Delphine's serious expression to the letter in her hands. "Um, that's good," she says, a little confused. "I hope the Forsworn made their deaths as painful as possible."

"Trust me, they did. The Forsworn have no love of Talos-" her brow furrows when she says that, but she continues on, "- but they care for the Thalmor's heavy-handed tactics even less. Anyway, I found these orders on the agent's body." She hands Lumen the folded paper. "I thought you'd want to know."

A cold, trickle of dread crawls down her spine as she takes the paper. If Delphine thought it important for Lumen to see what is written in these Thalmor orders, it could only mean one thing…

She takes a breath, and unfolds the parchment.

_First Emissary Elenwen received a communiqué from Justiciar Malrian on the 15th of Morning Star, 4E 202. It was requested that the contents therein be forwarded to all field agents operating within Skyrim._

_Justiciar Malrian's missive is as follows:_

_Request for retrieval of lost property._

_Name: Lulawen Ringtree - likely operating under the alias Lumen._

Oh, Sithis. Oh, _shit._

_Description: Female Bosmer of dark complexion, amber eyes, auburn hair. Approximately 35 years of age._

_Status: Capture only._

_Notes: Subdue Lumen using any means necessary. All that matters is that she is alive when she is returned to the Embassy for re-education. A monetary reward will be granted to the agent(s) responsible for her capture._

She wants to throw up, or cry, or- maybe she'll do both. This is bad. This is infinitely worse than facing a dragon. Malrian, her former master, knows she's in Skyrim and he's looking for her. She gasps for breath, fighting the urge to curl up and bawl, and she is only distantly aware of Delphine laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.

_First Emissary Elenwen's note: A Bosmer, who I now believe to be Lumen, infiltrated the Thalmor Embassy on the 21st of Frostfall, 4E 201. She is responsible for the deaths of five agents, including Third Emissary Rulindil. Use extreme caution when apprehending her._

With shaking hands, Lumen folds the letter and tucks it in her pocket. It takes her a few minutes to finally find her voice again, and when she does, she asks, "Who else has seen this?"

"Just me," Delphine says. "If I'd known sending you to the Embassy would result in _this_ , I never would have asked."

Lumen shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "It was only a matter of time, anyway," she says, her voice wavering. "I can't handle this. It's bad enough that I'm expected to fight some dragon god, but now I have to dodge the damn Thalmor too!" Not to mention drag Arnbjorn back to Mother so Lumen can once again vie for the position of the favorite child, but she'll not say that in front of Delphine.

"As the old saying goes; when it rains, it pours," Delphine murmurs, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Lumen, why didn't you tell me the truth? You told me you were raised by a Justiciar, not-" she waves her hand in the air, not quite knowing how to put it gently, and not wanting to put it bluntly, either. "I don't know what to call this."

"I was raised by a Justiciar, that is the truth. I just neglected to tell you that he raised me as a slave," she says. "Or a _pet_ , as they like to call us. It sounds better than slave, but it is the same thing. It's a pretty common practice among the upper echelons of the Thalmor." Lumen pushes away from the fence, feeling dazed. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Yes." Delphine waves for her to follow. "Come on, the Forsworn have a pretty strong wine made of fermented jazbay grapes and apples. You look like you could use a drink or- five, maybe."

"Gods, yes," Lumen breathes. Wanting to drink away all thoughts of Alduin, and of Malrian, and of everything in between until she can no longer feel her face. That would be _wonderful_.

When they arrive back at their small camp, they discover that Madanach and a handful of Forsworn have gathered around the fire, and are being entertained by none other than Cicero, who is telling a joke in a poor imitation of a Nordic accent.

"I once sold fish in the market, but do they call me Ulfric the Fishmonger? No! I used to forge weapons for soldiers, but do they call me Ulfric the Blacksmith? No! But you fuck _one_ goat-"

The gathering of Forsworn erupt into raucous laughter. Faendal hides his smile behind his hand, as Arnbjorn presses his lips together, and Lumen cannot tell if he's offended or simply trying not to laugh. Esbern looks a little surprised, but he doesn't seem to be offended at his own race being the butt of a joke. It's likely not the first time it's happened since he's been around the Forsworn.

Delphine looks to Lumen, her eyebrows raised in question, and Lumen just shrugs. "Be glad it's not the horker joke. It's worse. Much, much worse," Lumen says.

"Horker joke? Do I even want to know?" Delphine asks, grinning.

Lumen tries to smile, but it falls flat. "No. But don't worry, you'll hear it eventually. It's his favorite."

"Lumen!" Cicero bounds away from his captive audience and sweeps Lumen into a hug, squeezing her as if he hasn't seen her in days, even though it's only been about fifteen minutes. She doesn't mind though, not after the news Delphine just gave her, and she returns the embrace with ease, her fingers curling into the soft, worn velvet of Cicero's motley. Just the feel of his body and his familiar scent are a comfort to her. He smells of pine and woodsmoke, and the rich tang of homebrewed wine. And just when Lumen realizes she's held onto him for a moment too long, Cicero grabs her by the shoulders and pulls away just enough to look her in the eyes. "Something is wrong," he says. "What happened?"

"Um-" Lumen glances around, feeling rather uncomfortable when she notices all eyes are on her. Maybe the gathering of Forsworn is merely amused by her showing so much affection to a crazy jester. But Arnbjorn is watching her too, and he is not amused. He knows as well as Cicero does that something is wrong. "I'll tell you later," she says, forcing herself to smile. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine."

Delphine offers her a sympathetic smile and says, "I believe I promised you a drink."

"That you did," Lumen says, joining the group near the fire and sitting down in the cool grass. Cicero lowers himself next to her, leaning close but not touching her. He knows something is very wrong and he's not likely to let her out of his sight until he's rooted out the cause of her distress.

"Try this," Madanach says, offering her a handcrafted bottle of wine. "It's a Forsworn specialty. Go easy on it, it's stronger than that watered down swill the Nord's favor."

Lumen holds the mouth of the bottle to her nose, inspecting the wine's aroma before sampling it. It smells good at least. Of apples, honey, grape, and something sharp like pine. Juniper, perhaps. She takes a tentative sip, it's definitely an odd mix of flavors, and the clay bottle adds an earthy flavor to the wine, but it's not unpleasant. Soon enough, one sip becomes two, and two become eight, and that's when Cicero plucks the bottle from her hands. "Hey! I wasss drinkin' that!" Lumen protests.

"Cicero thinks you've had enough," he says, handing the bottle to Delphine. "I do not fancy spending another night holding your hair because you have made yourself sick, nor do I wish to endure your hung-over temper tomorrow."

"Yer jus' a stick in th'mud." Lumen folds her arms, and even through her tipsy haze she feels self-conscious about her slurring tongue. She just assumed Madanach was boasting when he said it was stronger than what she's used to. "And I never get sssick."

"Just because you do not remember getting sick does not mean it has never happened," Cicero mutters. "Sweet Lumen is a sloppy drunk sometimes."

"What?" she sputters, then blushes at the rumble of laughter that comes from the small gathering around their campfire.

"Should I be worried?" Madanach asks Delphine. "The jester claims she can breathe fire, and I don't need a drunk Dragonborn stumbling around the camp starting fires."

Delphine smirks. "She can, but that's not likely to happen."

"It won't happen," Lumen says, folding her arms and trying her best to keep her words from slurring. "I have to con- conce-" a frustrated sigh. "I have to _focus_."

"Good to know," Madanach laughs. "In that case, feel free to get as soused as you like."

"No!" Cicero and Delphine exclaim in unison, both casting wary glances at each other afterwards.

Lumen heaves an exasperated sigh, and Delphine says, "Sorry, Lumen. But I'll need you at full capacity when we explore those ruins tomorrow. There are traps within and we'll need to be careful and alert, and you will be neither of those if you are hung over."

"Fine, _fine_ ," Lumen sighs, fully prepared to sink into the doldrums now that her wine has been taken away and forbidden to her. It's probably for the best, although she'll never admit it to Delphine or Cicero. But she's exhausted and struggling to stay awake, and any more wine would probably result in an embarrassing situation, an upset stomach, and a pounding headache in the morning.

* * *

Lumen wakes slowly to the sound of Delphine calling her name. She rubs her eyes and groans, curling her body around Cicero's very warm, still sleeping form. "Just give me another hour," she murmurs.

"I've already let you sleep longer than I should have," Delphine says. "Come on. We're burning daylight and we need to get moving."

"I'll get up if you bring me breakfast," Lumen says, her lips curling into a small grin when she hears Delphine scoff.

"Nice try." Delphine stands near the tent flap, but not daring to peek inside. "Are you- decent?"

"Decent?" she asks, considering the question. Cicero had shed his shirt at some point during the night, but Lumen is still in her soft, cotton underarmor. "No, I'm naked," she says, grinning even wider. "And so are the five men in here with me. Don't come in, there are dicks _everywhere_ -" her words trail off in a laugh when a thoroughly unamused Delphine pushes the flap aside. Lumen laughs even harder when Cicero props himself on his elbows, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He runs his fingers through his tousled hair, staring at her in confusion, as if he's trying to decide if she _really_ just said what he thinks she said. But her laughter is infectious and it triggers his own.

"Talos give me strength," Delphine mutters under her breath. "Get dressed, you two. We're leaving in fifteen minutes." With that, she lets the tent flap fall closed, leaving the two giggling assassins to collect themselves.

Outside the tent, there is a bucket of water warming near the fire. It's not the bath Lumen has been so desperately wanting, but it is enough to freshen up with. Once relatively clean and dressed, Lumen straps her daggers to her belt, her fingers bumping over the small pouch the Thalmor orders are tucked inside of. The memory of what's written on those orders kills off all remnants of her good mood, filling her with a sense of hopelessness. She still hasn't told Cicero about it, and she figures there's no reason to do so now. It's not as if they can do anything about it, and Lumen sees no reason to worry Cicero. First, she will take Arnbjorn home, and then she will worry about Alduin, and _then_ , finally, she will deal with Malrian. She dreads facing him again, even though she's always wanted to kill him. Some part of her is terrified that he will still be able to sway her, that he can still control her like he used to, and it is safer to stay away from him than to subject herself to his influence.

"Are you ready?" Cicero asks, smoothing his hat over his freshly combed hair. He rubs his bare hand across his chin and jaw with an annoyed groan before slipping his gloves on. "Cicero will be glad to be back home after this. He needs a proper shave and his eyebrows need tending too…"

"Good gods," Lumen says, some semblance of a decent mood returning. "You preen more than I do." She smiles at his offended grunt. "You look fine. Besides, I don't think the Forsworn will care if you're a little scruffy."

" _I_ care," Cicero protests, but he lets the subject drop as he and Lumen walk through the large Forsworn camp. Delphine, Madanach, Esbern, Faendal, and surprisingly, Arnbjorn, are gathered outside the entrance to a cave.

"It's about time," Madanach growls. "You know, it's quite rude to keep your host waiting."

"Sorry," Lumen says absentmindedly. She's distracted by the sight of a goat's head on a pike, which is staked just outside the entrance to the cave. "I hate to ask but- why on Nirn is _that_ there?" she asks, pointing to the offending head.

"It's for decoration, obviously," Madanach says.

Lumen knows he's being facetious, but she lets it slide. Instead, she turns her attention to Arnbjorn. "And you're coming with us?" she asks hesitantly.

"Yeah," he says, sneering. "Seemed more interesting than sitting around doing nothing all day. Why? You got a problem with me tagging along, elf?"

"No," she says. A lie, of course, but she'll never admit it. She turns away from Arnbjorn to address the group as a whole. "So, are we going or what? I don't want to stand downwind from that thing for much longer," she says, motioning at the goat's head.

"All right, follow me." Madanach motions for everyone to follow him. "Initially this cave was infested with Frostbite spiders, nasty things, but my people have cleared them out. Watch out for webs, though."

* * *

The journey through the ruins is uneventful. Madanach, Delphine and Esbern had been through them previously, and had deciphered the puzzles. All but one, anyway, and once they make it past the blood seal, Esbern busies himself with inspecting the large, stone relief that dominates the main hall of the temple, while Faendal and Arnbjorn sift through a small armory just off the main hall.

Lumen is perched on the edge of a long dining table as Cicero wraps her hand in a bandage, fussing at her the entire time. "Sweet Lumen really should not refuse healing when it is freely offered," he says.

"It's just a cut," she says. "I'm fine."

Madanach shrugs. "Leave her be," he says, resting his hands on his hips. "If she's too proud to accept my offer of healing, I doubt you're going to get anywhere by nagging her."

"Cicero is not _nagging_ -"

"It has nothing to do with _pride_ -"

"Would the three of you please be quiet?" Delphine calls out, commanding their attention, and the two assassins fall silent, while Madanach just smiles innocently. "All right, Esbern, go on."

Esbern clears his throat, regarding Cicero and Lumen as one would two naughty children. "As I was saying," he says, turning his back to them and pointing at the relief. "This panel goes back to the beginning of time, when Alduin and the Dragon Cult ruled over Skyrim." He motions to the center of the wall. "Here, the humans rebel against their dragon overlords. Alduin's defeat is the centerpiece of the wall. You see, here he is falling from the sky."

"Why is he falling from the sky, though?" Lumen asks, her eyes roaming over the large, intricate carving. "Arrows only do so much, and I imagine it must take a _lot_ of magic to bring a dragon down."

Esbern studies the mural in silence, then he finally says, "The carving implies a Shout was used to knock him from the sky, but I cannot tell what Shout it is."

Delphine glances at Lumen. "Do you know of such a Shout?" she asks.

Lumen shakes her head. "No. I only know a few, and I definitely don't know of any Shout that can pull a dragon from the sky. The Greybeards might know, but I _really_ don't want to go back to High Hrothgar just to ask them. It's too damn cold."

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to involve them at all," Delphine mutters. "But it looks like we have no choice."

Lumen steps closer to the mural, her eyes roaming over the details and the story the pictures tell. Alduin was pulled from the sky with a single Shout, but he wasn't truly defeated. She wonders what went wrong. Why wasn't he defeated, and why is he back now? Is it because there was no Dragonborn in the past to take his soul? It seems strange that the gods would call upon a Dragonborn now, but not then. Maybe they did and that Dragonborn failed, or simply didn't care. If it's the latter then they were a fool, because if what Esbern says is true about Alduin being a god in his own right, then he has the soul of a god for Lumen to take. Just the thought of absorbing so much power makes her dizzy. If she had that kind of power she wouldn't have to fear Malrian. She wouldn't have to fear anyone or anything.

"Elf. Elf! What the- Hey! Lumen!"

Lumen gasps and whirls around to face Arnbjorn. "What?" she snaps, annoyed at being pulled away from her fantasy, and a little embarrassed that she'd been so lost in it.

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?" he asks, his mouth curling in a sneer.

"I was thinking!"

"That's a first," Arnbjorn snaps as he thrusts a long, thin sword in her arms with so much force she almost stumbles backwards. "I found this in the armory. It seems like it would be more effective against dragons than those two toy knives you like so much." He takes a step away from her, and in the most sarcastic tone he can muster he says, " _You're welcome_."

Lumen barely registers the sword in her arms. "Toy knives? They're daedric daggers!" she exclaims, unreasonably offended by her choice in weapons being insulted.

"I don't care what they are." He steps away from her, and casts a glare at Cicero, who seems highly amused by their exchange. "They're tiny and useless," he says, his implication clear.

Cicero smiles widely at Arnbjorn, unaffected by the vague insult. Lumen is tempted to yell at the Nord, but the uncomfortable glances Delphine, Esbern and Faendal are sharing have her holding her tongue for now. "Whatever," she grumbles, then finally turns her attention to the sword in her hands. It is a rather nice sword. Lightweight and sharp, and humming with enchantments. If Arnbjorn hadn't been such a jerk about it, Lumen would've gladly thanked him for finding it and giving it to her.

* * *

Evening has fallen over Karthspire, and with the Blades still busy exploring their new base of operations, the three assassins return to their small camp. Arnbjorn stokes the fire, while Cicero idly hums as he drags a whetstone across his ebony dagger. Lumen settles down near the fire and digs through her traveling pack, pulling out a leather bound journal, a quill, and a small jar of ink. She has to write Nazir. _Absolutely has to_ just so he doesn't assume she's dead, because she doesn't know when they will make it back home. But first, she's got to break the news to Arnbjorn and Cicero.

"So, I've been thinking…" she begins, waiting for the two men to pay attention to her. Cicero looks up, but Arnbjorn simply continues with the task of stoking the fire. "It would be a waste of time to travel all the way to Dawnstar and then to Ivarstead. I think it would make more sense if we went to Ivarstead from here, and on to High Hrothgar to see what the Greybeards can tell me about that dragon-grounding Shout," she says, nervously glancing between her two companions. "After that we'll head home."

"But Mother needs tending," Cicero protests, and Lumen sighs. She knew he'd be the one to object to her plan. "And surely the Sacrament has been done by someone, somewhere. The Listener should be there to Listen."

"Mother will be fine for another week-"

"This is going to take longer than a week!"

"Regardless, she'll be fine, and if the Sacrament has been done then she'll tell me all about it when we get home," she says, trying desperately to keep her temper in check. Debating is not a strength of hers, she usually just becomes angry and starts to yell. And she knows yelling will get her nowhere with Cicero, he'll just ignore her until she calms down. "I want to go home as badly as you do, but it makes more sense to go to High Hrothgar first."

"You do not understand." Cicero sets his blade and whetstone down, and proceeds to nervously wring his hands. "The Keeping Ritual must be done on a schedule so that Mother can continue to speak!"

"What is your schedule, anyway?" She feels a little foolish for even asking, because she really should remember.

"Weekly," he says, his voice taking on a hard edge. "And I have no intention on delaying the ritual now."

"But I need you to go with me! I can't possibly go alone!" Lumen says, knowing she's whining and not caring. "Last time I went I hired a sellsword to go with me, but I don't have enough gold to do that this time."

"If you expect Cicero to climb some horrible, cold mountain for you, then you will have to do things his way!" he says, folding his arms. "Mother is more important to Cicero than these Greybeards."

"But- I- " Lumen stammers. The intense look in Cicero's eyes is intimidating, to say the very least. If there is one thing you _do not_ fuck with Cicero about, it's the Night Mother.

"I'll take you," Arnbjorn says suddenly.

"What?"

"I said, I will take you." Arnbjorn frowns, as if the decision is causing him no small amount of pain. "Send the clown home to take care of the cor- the Night Mother, and we'll go on to Ivarstead."

"Have you been to the Throat of the World before? It's not an easy climb, which is why I hired someone last time," Lumen says. Not that she thinks Arnbjorn is incapable, but she's not terribly fond of the idea of traveling alone with him. Talk about awkward. But maybe she can endure his company if it means she'll get what she wants.

"You will have a better chance of surviving the journey with me than with that little Imperial fool," Arnbjorn says, casting a pointed glare Cicero's way. "I've made the pilgrimage before."

Despite her best efforts, Lumen smiles at that. "You actually climbed that mountain just to pray at the shrines?" she asks. "It's a very _Nordly_ thing to do, but I just can't picture you doing it."

"My father prayed at the shrines," Arnbjorn growls. "I just stood there quietly, wishing I was home and hoping my nuts wouldn't freeze off in the meantime."

"Cicero thinks this is a bad idea," he says, watching Arnbjorn carefully. "Cicero thinks the dog just wants to get the Listener alone so he can kill her."

"I don't need to get her alone just to kill her. I've had plenty of opportunities to kill the both of you, and I haven't. I-" Arnbjorn pauses, his brow furrowing in irritation as he looks away from the pair. "You two are the most insufferable, annoying, pair of idiots I've ever had the misfortune of knowing-"

Lumen frowns. "Gods, Arnbjorn. I'm _touched_."

"-but the Dark Brotherhood is all I've known for the past fifteen years of my life, and I don't know what else to do," he admits. "I'll take you to the Greybeards, and after that- we can go home."

"No, no. Cicero is not comfortable with this at all… Lumen, please, just come home with Cicero. It will only delay your visit to the Greybeards by a week," he pleads, edging closer to her and whispering, "Cicero does not trust Arnbjorn."

"Look, I just want to get this over with sooner rather than later," Lumen says, determined her hold her ground. "Besides, if Arnbjorn is willing to be a part of the family again, then we're all going to have to learn to trust each other." Then, to further guilt Cicero she adds, "That would make Mother happy, don't you think?"

Cicero heaves a defeated sigh. "Yes. I suppose Mother would prefer it if all her children learned to trust one another," he mutters irritably. "It will not be easy, though."

"I have a job for you," Lumen says, knowing exactly what will perk him up. "I'll need you to personally deliver a letter to Nazir. I'm going to ask him to start looking for new recruits, and I'd like you to help him."

"Really, Listener?" Cicero gasps, utterly delighted at being given such responsibility. "Cicero has never recruited anyone before. Normally Speakers do such things."

"I know, but I trust your judgment," Lumen says, expecting Cicero to be rather pleased at her saying so. But she does not expect him to pounce on her and wrap her in a crushing embrace, all while knocking her onto the ground in the process.

"You do?" Cicero chirps, squeezing her tighter. "You would trust Cicero with this?"

Arnbjorn snorts in disgust, and Lumen squirms beneath Cicero's weight. "Yes!" she gasps. "Cicero, I can't breathe-"

"I- uh, I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but I need the three of you to come with me for a moment," Madanach's voice calls out. "Liadan is requesting your presence, and she is not one to be kept waiting."

"I'm surprised you're not still exploring the temple." Lumen glances up at Madanach as she tries to push an overly excited Cicero away. "Who is Liadan, anyway?"

"Liadan is the matron of this camp," Madanach says, smirking at the assassins. "She is not particularly social, and it is considered a great honor if she calls upon you. So get off your duffs and get moving."

Lumen wonders if all Forsworn camps were like Karthspire. She had assumed Madanach was the leader of the camp, rather than some unknown woman. If Liadan is the matron of the camp, and apparently giving orders to Madanach, then perhaps their society is more matriarchal than patriarchal. Lumen doesn't have much time to think on that, because soon enough Madanach is leading them across a rickety bridge and up a small hill. There, a large tent is pitched next to a bonfire and a stone altar. The body of a young man is laid upon the altar, his chest cavity cut open and his heart removed.

A woman, or what Lumen supposes is a woman, turns away from the altar. She moves toward them in a strange, scuttling walk. It is a bit like watching a long-legged crane walk through reeds, awkward and slow. It's almost funny, but only a fool would dare to laugh at a hagraven. Said hagraven is draped in a large, black cloak. Her long white hair flowing across her shoulders, and adorned with black feathers. The hagraven's obsidian eyes roam over the three assassins, and stop on Lumen. "So once again the Night Mother's will is being done, her long-silenced voice silent no more," she smiles, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. "It is an honor, Listener."

Lumen exchanges a nervous look with Cicero. "How- how'd you know?" she asks dumbly.

"My hag's eyes see more than my mortal eyes ever did," Liadan explains. "I see this world, and I see shadows of the worlds beyond, and if I am lucky, I am allowed tiny glimpses into the Void. It is easy to see that you three are Children of Sithis, and you carry the darkness of the Void with you."

"Not many are so eager to see into the Void," Lumen says, though she's not so sure if she should. What is the proper way to address a hagraven, anyway? "Do you worship Sithis?"

"I worship the old gods, as do all Forsworn, but I did not invite you here for a lesson in our history or religion." Liadan folds her clawed hands in front of her as she circles around the assassins, sizing them up with a strange smile on her wizened face. When she walks past Arnbjorn, she hooks her finger under the rope that's tied around his neck, tugging it off of him. "I apologize for that, wolf. It was just a precaution. But I see that you have tamed your urges quite well."

"Er- thanks," he says, rubbing his neck and looking more uncomfortable than Lumen has ever seen him.

"And look at you," Liadan practically purrs when she passes by Cicero, and she drags a talon along his high cheek bone. " _Adorable_." To his credit, Cicero doesn't even flinch, but Lumen can tell he's unnerved. She would be worried too, if Liadan had her razor-sharp claws so close to her own face. Liadan pulls away from Cicero and waves her hand. "Go on, you two, and you as well Madanach. I would like to speak with the Listener alone."

The three men leave, though Cicero does so a bit hesitantly. "So," Lumen begins, feeling exceedingly nervous. "What can I do for you?"

Liadan makes a rasping sound, which Lumen supposes is a laugh. "Straight to the point, hmm? Come here, you can help me while we talk," the hag says, as she walks back to the stone altar, and the man laid upon it.

Lumen circles around the altar, staring into the man's open chest cavity, then to a bowl sitting beside him. Inside the bowl, a strange spiky husk floats in a shimmering liquid. "What- what are you doing?"

"Creating life in the only way that I can," the hag explains. "I lost my apprentice in a dragon attack. But now _you_ are here, and I believe you have the stomach needed for such things, am I right? You are no stranger to the inner workings of humans and elves."

"You are correct," Lumen says. "I don't usually dig around inside of them, though. Well-" she pauses, remembering her time with Rulindil. "Not always."

Liadan dips her hands in the bowl, gently cupping the husk. "Get in there, then," she says. "Pull him open."

"Is this why you wanted me to stay? To help you build your- your briarheart?" Lumen asks as she curls slides her fingers inside the man's cold chest, pulling his ribs apart.

"Not entirely," Liadan says, gently placing the husk inside the man's chest. "I am just getting a feel for you." The hag begins stitching the briar into place with tendons that were likely removed from the man's actual heart. "You did not even flinch."

Lumen's arms are beginning to burn with the effort of keeping the man's ribs spread. "It's just a body," she says, glancing away from the man's open chest and to his face. He is- _was_ , very young. No older than twenty, with pale, freckled skin and dirty, blond hair. "May I ask a question?"

"You may."

"Did he choose this?"

Liadan doesn't answer her immediately, she just continues her tedious task of sewing the briar in place. "He did," she finally says. "Would you object, otherwise?"

"No," Lumen answers truthfully. "Of course not."

"It is a great honor to sacrifice oneself to the old gods in exchange for power," Liadan explains. "When he rises again, he will be a creature of might and magic. He will be loyal and focused. His only purpose will be to fight for the Forsworn." Once the heart is sewn into place, Liadan casts a healing spell to fuse the sternum back together, and then she grabs a large, bone needle and a leather string. "You may let go," she says. "Now, as to what I want to speak with you about… You think I _want_ something, don't you?"

Lumen pulls her hands from the man's body and wipes the blood on a nearby cloth. "I mean no offense, but most people only talk to me because they want something. Usually it's because they want someone killed."

"I am quite capable of doing my own killing." Liadan does not look up from her task of stitching the incision along the briarheart's chest as she speaks. "The future will not be easy for you, Dragon-Listener, so keep your companions close. You will need them more than you'll ever know. You can trust them, _mostly_."

"Mostly?"

"The Imperial is of no concern. You have his support, I can tell. But you can never completely trust a beast." Liadan gives one final tug of the leather string before cutting it from the needle and tying it off. "His help will be invaluable to you, however."

"I see," Lumen stares down at the stitched wound, the man's briarheart on clear view. "Why are you telling me this? How can you know any of this when we've never met before?"

Liadan looks up, her eyes meeting Lumen's. "I am telling you this, because you need to hear it," she says calmly. "As for how I know… Well, _that_ is a secret, and not one I will share unless you choose to ascend as I have." The hag offers her a quick grin, but as soon as it appears, it is gone, as well as her once-friendly demeanor. "I thank you for your help, Listener, but I must ask you to leave. What happens next is not for your eyes."

"All right," Lumen says, moving away from the altar, and quite relieved to be dismissed. "Thank you for the, um- advice?" Liadan does not respond, and Lumen walks swiftly away from the hagraven and her soon-to-be thrall. Dead bodies never bothered her, but dead bodies _rising_ is not something Lumen has ever been comfortable with. The idea of the dead man coming back to life sends a chill down her spine. She moves faster as the hagraven begins to chant, the incantation following her from the rocky alcove, and likely to haunt her for many nights to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the 'Ulfric The Goat Fucker' joke. But I could not resist the temptation. XD
> 
> This chapter was a bear to write. I think it's because there were so many things I wanted to cover before moving on. But I also really enjoyed it. The bit with Liadan was a lot of fun to write. As for Cicero... Heh. I feel like he's one of those people that rarely uses any harsh curse words, but when he does it's always to make a point. Also, yeah... I know you can't take Alduin's soul. But Lumen doesn't know that. ;)
> 
> Up next, Lumen and Arnbjorn head to the Throat of the World, and Cicero has his own adventure...


	21. Itinerant Assassins

_Warnings: A tiny smutty scene and some violence. (Are you even surprised, dear reader?)_

* * *

It is a particularly dark, moonless night, and it is difficult for Lumen to see the outline of Cicero's body in the darkness of their tent. But she doesn't need to see him to tell that he's awake. His breathing is slow and steady, but he's oddly silent. Most nights Lumen falls asleep with Cicero chattering away in her ear. But ever since their visit with the resident hagraven, he hasn't had much to say.

"Hey." Lumen scoots closer to him and rests her hand on his chest. After having her hands in the chest of a dead man, it feels rather nice to touch a living one. "What's wrong? Are you getting sick? You're not usually so quiet."

"Cicero is not sick," he says. "Cicero is just lost in thought."

"You often are," she says, a little concerned at the abnormally flat tone of his voice. "But you usually share them with me."

He breathes a silent, humorless laugh. "You would not appreciate my thoughts tonight."

"You're angry with me," Lumen says slowly. A lot of people have been angry with her in her lifetime, and many have downright hated her, and it's not something that ever bothered her. It's not as if she actually has time for what people feel. But with Cicero, it's different. Everything always is, and everything is always infinitely more complicated too. "Is this about our traveling situation?"

"Cicero is not angry," he says quickly, resting his hand upon hers. "Cic- _I_ am worried. I told you before that I do not trust the dog. He tried to kill you just a few days ago and now you are traveling alone with him." Cicero sighs and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "It is stupid to risk your life just to save some time, and I do not appreciate the position you have put me in."

"Exactly what position have I put you in?"

"Cicero has to choose between tending to Mother, or protecting _you_ , Listener," he says, and though his voice is calm, there is a stiffness to each syllable, betraying his barely controlled anger. "I cannot do both."

"You will tend to Mother," Lumen says."I can protect myself, you know. I've endured worse company than Arnbjorn's and I won't turn away help when it's freely offered to me."

"Cicero would like it if you reconsidered," he says quietly. "Just wait so Cicero can go with you."

"Why do you want to go? You're not exactly built for mountain climbing, and that beautiful, fair skin of yours would become horribly chapped in the cold, bitter wind." At those words, she allows her hand to roam across his torso, suddenly feeling the need to explore every inch of that beautiful, fair skin. "That would be a tragedy."

"It will be a tragedy if the Listener is killed because she is too trusting," Cicero snaps.

Lumen can't help but laugh at that. "Trusting? Me? Did you hit your head?" she asks, still laughing when a highly annoyed Cicero finally shoves her hand away. "I trust Arnbjorn about as far as I can throw him. But he's offered to help and I'm going to take it. This way we can both do what we need to do. You need to tend to Mother and I need to learn that Shout."

"Maybe you just want to be alone with the dog," he mutters, rolling onto his side with his back to Lumen.

"Oh my gods," she breathes, moving closer to him. "I distinctly remember you telling me you weren't jealous of Arnbjorn, but I think you are."

"I am _not_ ," Cicero says tersely. "If the Listener wishes to have multiple lovers, Cicero will not object. I would just prefer it if you would tell me about it, rather than sneaking off."

"That is not what's going on here, I can promise you that." Lumen grabs his shoulder, urging him to roll onto his back so she can look him in the eyes, despite the near pitch darkness of their little tent. "Are you telling me that you don't care if I sleep with other people?"

"Cicero does not own you, sweet Listener. You are free to do as you please."

"And you wouldn't be jealous?" she asks, genuinely curious. All her past lovers had always been the excessively jealous types. Needless to say, those relationships never lasted very long.

"As long as Cicero is your favorite, he sees no reason to be jealous," he says, and though she can't see it, Lumen is relieved to hear the smile in his voice.

"You don't have anything to worry about," Lumen whispers, leaning close and brushing her lips across his in a gentle kiss. "You'll always be my favorite."

A small gasp escapes him. "Really?" he asks quietly.

"Yes, really," she says, not quite understanding the gravity of what she just said. But the tone of his voice and the way he desperately grabs her hand tells her all she needs to know. Lumen tries to think of a way to change the subject, because the air in the tent is too heavy, the mood too intense, and there are entirely too many butterflies in her stomach. "For what it's worth, I don't have my eyes on anyone else. But if I did, I would tell you."

"Thank you," Cicero murmurs.

"You know what I think?" Lumen asks, straddling him and running her fingers across his exposed chest. "I think my _favorite_ needs someone to tend to him for a little while."

"What do you have in mi-" Cicero yelps, squirming beneath Lumen when her fingers dance across a particularly sensitive spot on his stomach. "Ooh! L-Listener! That tickles!"

"What do I have in mind?" Lumen grins as she pushes his legs apart, settling in between them as she drags her fingers down his torso. She only stops when she reaches the hem of his pants. "Well, I could tell you," she purrs, tugging at the laces and rather pleased to feel the ridge of an erection straining against his trousers. Tickling almost always has that effect on him. "Or I could show you. Which would you prefer?"

"I think you know," Cicero says, his voice thick with desire.

Lumen dearly wishes she knew how to cast a magelight spell, because she wants to see him. She can feel him writhing beneath her light, teasing touches, but it would be so much better if she could see him coming undone and looking utterly ruined because of her. She absolutely hates having to admit that she can't cast, but-

"Cicero…"

"Hm?" he grunts, clearly more interested in focusing on the hand stroking his erect shaft, rather than engage in conversation.

"Do you know a magelight spell?" she asks, feeling the cold prickle of embarrassment wash over her. "I don't and um- I can't see anything."

For a few moments, Cicero says nothing. The only sounds escaping him are soft puffs of breath and the occasional muffled moan. There's absolutely no way he's too caught up in the moment to respond, and Lumen knows he's trying not to laugh at her woeful lack of magic. She's been laughed at before, and she supposes an elf that cannot cast is a rarity indeed. But Cicero is too smart to outright laugh at a woman who's got a firm grip on his cock. "I know the spell," he finally says, and a small, pale orb of light forms in his palm. A flick of his wrist sends the orb floating to the top of the tent, illuminating the two assassins in the soft glow of magical light.

Lumen smiles at the sight of him propping his head up with his hands so he can watch her. Seems like she's not the only one who was wishing for a little light. "Thank you," she says, her eyes meeting his as her lips caress the tip of his cock.

"You are-" his words break off in a gasp. "-welcome," he groans.

They do not speak again for quite some time.

* * *

Arnbjorn can hear the soft murmur of a conversation coming from within the Listener's tent, and he is grateful his two companions are being somewhat quiet. He would love to sleep, but he's too restless to do so. But the silence- or near silence, anyway, is rather nice. Well… It _was_ nice right up until the flare of a magelight spell catches his eye, and he glances toward the Listener's tent. He can only see their silhouettes, but he can see enough to get a pretty damn good idea of what is going on in the tent. He turns away, and when Cicero gives up on remaining quiet, Arnbjorn decides a walk around the camp is in order.

He _does not_ want to see or hear any of _that_.

Arnbjorn walks swiftly and without aim, the tents and waning fires of the camp whipping by him in a blur. He needs space. He needs to be alone and to think. Because jealousy is burning white hot in his chest and fueling the raging fires of his grief. He doesn't desire the elf. He's not even sure if he likes the elf. But he is shamefully jealous of the intimacy the elf and her pet clown share.

He misses Astrid so much.

He had been missing her long before she died, but he never stopped loving her. Just because their passion had cooled did not mean there was no love between them. She was always focused on the Brotherhood, and that's one of the reasons he loved her. That fierce determination is how she broke through all his defenses in the first place. Unfortunately, that determination devolved into a single-minded focus. _An obsession_. And it was ultimately her downfall. The emperor contract took over their lives, and the addition of the Listener made her so paranoid. But at times he wonders if he added to that paranoia. Arnbjorn never tried to be discreet when he looked someone over, and Astrid never cared if he did, because he came home to her. _Always_. But then Lumen happened. She was all dark skin, long hair and soft curves, and there was no harm in looking was there? Not unless Astrid noticed. Everyone could tell she felt threatened by Lumen being the Listener, and perhaps Arnbjorn's wandering eyes had only added to that. And maybe, just maybe, she started to suspect that something _more_ had happened...

"Stop," he growls at himself. There is no reason to wallow, no reason to pick things apart and incessantly wonder what went wrong. Astrid is dead. It doesn't matter anymore.

"Is there a problem, Nord?"

Arnbjorn had been so lost in thought, he didn't realize how far he'd walked. He's at the edge of the camp, near a look out point where Uraccen is sitting, bow and arrow in hand. "No," he says. "No problem."

Uraccen tilts his head. "Truly? When a man is wandering around in the middle of the night, rubbing his face and talking to himself, it usually means there is a problem."

"There's no reason to discuss a problem that can't be fixed."

"I suppose you are right." Uraccen smirks at him. "You will always be a Nord, and try as I might, that is something I cannot change."

Arnbjorn grins in spite of his rotten mood, but he does not respond. The man is only teasing him, and means no harm. But Arnbjorn isn't exactly in a playful mood at the moment, and silence seems to be the best response.

"What in Oblivion is that?" Uraccen stands, quickly nocking an arrow.

Arnbjorn follows his line of sight, and he spots two, glowing eyes in the darkness. The soft, distant sound of hooves tells him that the creature coming toward the came in none other than Shadowmere. But Uraccen, being merely human and not blessed with lycanthropy, will not be able to hear the hooves until the horse gets closer. "It's just our horse," he tells the man. "Wasn't he outside the grotto where you captured us?'

"Are you seriously telling me that a horse has eyes like that?" Uraccen gasps, lowering his bow. "No, he wasn't outside the grotto. I would remember a horse that had glowing eyes."

Ah, the clown and the elf must have left Shadowmere at the Falkreath stables. Probably a good thing, considering everything that happened at the grotto. Shadowmere would've attacked the Forsworn, and while the horse is a nearly unstoppable creature of the Void, he probably wouldn't fare so well against a contingent for Forsworn warriors.

Shadowmere approaches Arnbjorn, nuzzling him and grunting, a sure sign that he is pleased that he's still a part of the family. The horse always did seem to favor him above anyone else in the family, and it seems like that has not changed. "At least someone missed me," Arnbjorn murmurs, gently rubbing the horse's nose.

"Leave it to the Dark Brotherhood to have a horse that looks like a daedra straight from the Deadlands," Uraccen comments, a hint of admiration in his voice. "Wherever did you find him?"

"Shadowmere is one of us," Arnbjorn tells him. "He was a part of the family long before I ever joined up."

The man looks a little unnerved, but soon his easy smile is back in place. "Are there any other murderous pets that may come looking for you? I'd like to know, just so I don't shoot them."

"No," Arnbjorn says as he strokes Shadowmere's neck. "The only other Dark Brotherhood _pet_ is the clown, and he's already here, so…"

Uraccen laughs at that. "I get the feeling I'd be making you quite happy if I fired an arrow his way. But harming the Dragonborn's lover is probably bad for one's health, am I right?"

"You aren't wrong," Arnbjorn growls, knowing all too well just how far the Listener is willing to go to protect the Keeper. Maybe he should consider himself lucky that the elf tried to manipulate him in the way that she did, otherwise he'd probably be dead. He isn't certain what is worse; Hircine's Hunting Grounds or the odd mix of emotions that assail him everytime he looks at her. What had possessed him to offer to take her to High Hrothgar, anyway? He must be going insane. Perhaps whatever madness the clown has is contagious.

"I'll keep my arrows in their quiver, then," the man says, seemingly oblivious to Arnbjorn's brooding. Or, he's noticed and is offering a distraction. "I spent almost two decades of my life underground, and I have no desire to return there just yet."

"You were in Cidhna Mine with Madanach?" Arnbjorn asks, remembering tales of the Markarth Incident, Madanach, and his stint in the mine. Although every story was different depending on who was telling it and their overall sobriety at the time. "That's a long time to be locked up. It's a wonder you aren't completely insane."

"I never said I wasn't!" Uraccen laughs, but the laughter quickly fades and something solemn takes its place. "And you are right, that is a long time to be locked up. I had a daughter, you know. I had been looking forward to holding my little girl again after missing so much of her life."

"Had been," Arnbjorn murmurs. "What happened?"

Uraccen shrugs. "She was killed, but I don't know who killed her. So I am content to blame the Silver-Blood family," he says, glaring fiercely into the distance. "At least most the Silver-Bloods are dead. Unfortunately, Thongvor is still alive and a little more difficult to get to."

"Not for everyone."

"No? I've heard he's taken to locking himself inside the Treasury House. We could go after him, but our resources are limited and we need to focus on organizing our people, rather than going after one man for revenge," Uraccen says. "Revenge will come in time, I suppose. I am just tired of waiting."

"Do the Sacrament," Arnbjorn suggests. "It wouldn't be as satisfying as killing him yourself, but at least he would be dead."

Uraccen stares at him for a moment, the scowl on his face easing with each passing second. "I guess I forgot who I was talking to for a moment there," he says quietly. "A tempting idea, but the Forsworn able to to their own killing."

"The Forsworn are certainly capable, there's no doubt about that," Arnbjorn says, remembering a few occasions when he had to deal with the Forsworn when he was a Companion. "But you just said your resources are stretched thin, and your priorities elsewhere. There's no shame in hiring a little outside help when you need something done." Arnbjorn has no desire to aid the Forsworn, not that he has anything against them. Their fight with the Nords of the Reach has nothing to do with him, and he really doesn't feel the need to get involved. He does, however, need proof of Lumen's Listener status. Arnbjorn can believe she is the Dragonborn. He's seen her take a dragon's soul with his own eyes, but he's not completely sold on the elf being the Listener. But if Uraccen does the Black Sacrament and Night Mother does communicate this to the elf, Arnbjorn might be a little more open to accepting her as the leader of the Dark Brotherhood.

"I- I'll think on it." Uraccen scratches his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. "I'll run the idea by Madanach. See if he's interested. Don't hold your breath, though."

Arnbjorn nods and bids the man goodnight. He's tired, and if the elf and the clown aren't _finished_ by the time he makes it back to their camp, he plans to dump a bucket of cold water on the horny idiots just so he can get some sleep.

* * *

By morning, the three assassins are scrambling to pack their gear. While they are not so eager to be on the road, they are eager to have a safe place to rest come nightfall.

"Are you sure you have everything you need? You didn't pack much food at all." Lumen digs through Cicero's pack, knowing she's being a little overbearing, but not caring in the least. He'll have Shadowmere with him and he is a seasoned assassin, and she knows he'll be fine on his own. But that does little to ease her worries. They've been around each other constantly since they moved to Dawnstar, and the thought of being apart is unsettling, though she doesn't understand why.

Cicero gently swats her hands away. After closing his pack, he hefts it over his shoulder to prevent her from digging through it for a third time. "Cicero is only traveling for one day, sweet Lumen. He has everything he needs to survive," he says, clearly amused at her odd behavior. "This is not the first time Cicero has traveled alone, you know."

"I know that, but-"

"Cicero would also like to remind you that this is _your idea_ ," he says, turning away from her and heading to where Shadowmere is grazing. "You are the one who is too stubborn to do things Cicero's way."

"I am not being stubborn." Lumen stomps after him. "I'm being efficient."

"Whatever you want to call it, sweetness," Cicero purrs, glancing over his shoulder to grin at her before turning back to the task of strapping his pack to Shadowmere's saddle. "Still, Cicero does not mind being cared for by his Listener, he just wishes it involved more caring and less fussing."

Lumen grumbles and folds her arms. "You have the letter I wrote for Nazir, yes?"

He turns to face her, patting one of the many pouches lining his belt. "Cicero has it on his person and will deliver it directly to Nazir," he says. "Do not worry."

She smiles weakly at Cicero, but it vanishes when she catches sight of Arnbjorn striding toward them. He is walking swiftly and scowling as deeply as ever, with his cold, silver eyes focused right on her. Considering how he's looking at her, Lumen has half a mind to run, and the only comfort is that he doesn't have a weapon drawn. Not that he needs one.

"Are you ready to go?" he growls at her. "I've been waiting for half an hour. Say your goodbyes to the clown and let's get moving."

"Fine," Lumen snaps, before turning her attention back to Cicero. "I'll see you in a week or so." After a moment of awkward internal fumbling, Lumen wraps her arms around the jester, squeezing him tight. "Say hi to Mother for me," she says, trying desperately to keep their goodbye as lighthearted as possible.

"I will, sweet Listener." Cicero's gaze slides to Arnbjorn, and his grin grows wider when he says, "And if the mutt starts humping your leg, just be sure to give him a good swat on the nose."

Lumen heaves a sigh. " _Okay. Maybe I won't miss the little shit as much as I initially thought."_

Arnbjorn winces and curls his lip in the most vehement display of disgust Lumen has ever seen. It's hard not to be downright offended by his revulsion. "That most certainly will _not_ happen," he snarls. "Come on, elf. Quit stalling and let's go. Madanach agreed to give us one of his horses. A horse isn't much use out here in these mountains and they only acquired them because they needed something to haul the cart they had us in."

"Ah, well that will make the trip a little easier if we don't have to walk-"

"Oh, no. I'm not sharing a horse with you. I'm walking, and I'm putting your slow ass on the horse so it will only take us one day to get to Ivarstead rather than three."

"My _what_?"

"There are other terms I could use, but I am being polite," he says, a vicious grin on his face. "But those short, stubby legs of yours will only slow us down. So on the horse you go."

"St- stubby?!" Lumen gasps, and her insult turns to anger when Cicero actually _laughs_. Furious, she stomps away from the two men before she completely loses her temper and murders them both.

There is no doubt about it. This trip is going to be a fucking nightmare.

* * *

Three hours on the road and not a single word has passed between them. Not that Lumen's taciturn companion has tried to start a conversation. The silence is starting to grate on her nerves, but she's refusing to speak to the insufferable man on principle. Still, she is beginning to miss the bustle and noise of the Forsworn camp, and even though she's still a little irritated at him for laughing at Arnbjorn's mockery of her legs, she misses Cicero's incessant chattering even more. His jokes and stories of Cyrodiil would be a welcome distraction, because all Lumen can think about is the letter in her pocket. Funny something that is nothing more than parchment and ink could have her stomach twisting into knots and a cold sweat breaking out across her skin.

Malrian. Gods, just the syllables of his name are enough to send her into a state of panic, and the notion that he is one step closer to finding her might send her into a frenzy of terror if she thinks about it too much. It's no surprise that he would think to look for her here, it's not as if she's done a good job of laying low. If he's still in Cyrodiil now, he won't be for long, and Skyrim certainly isn't big enough for the two of them. Just the thought that he might be in Skyrim, or will be soon, has her itching to run.

Worst of all is the fact that he doesn't want her dead. Of course he doesn't. He wants her to submit to Thalmor re-education, which is just a fancy term for torture. Torture that will probably, ultimately result in her death by Malrian's hand. The Eight only know what horrors he plans to subject her to before he either kills her or she succumbs to her injuries.

" _It can't be any worse than the things he did before I escaped,"_ she tells herself, and then realizes how very wrong she is. Malrian is a sadist, and a rather imaginative one at that.

In the past, whenever she thought things couldn't get any worse, they always did. _Always_.

There was a time when she had learned to cope with his cruelties, but after a particularly warm summer when his family came to visit, things got worse. Especially after they left. Malrian became more cruel, and Lumen more defiant. It was a virulent combination. She can recall so many times she thought she was truly going to die. She remembers a time when he held his dagger inside her mouth, tapping it against each of her teeth and vividly describing to her a time when he'd removed a prisoner's teeth with the very same dagger. The only comfort she had was the fact that he was too vain to permanently disfigure his own pet- well, where others could _see_ , anyway. There are, in fact, multiple scars upon her psyche. After that one, fateful summer, he developed a morbid fascination with mentally tormenting her after he discovered that mental pain affected her more than physical pain ever did.

Lumen grips the reigns of her horse tighter and closes her eyes. It's everything she can do to keep the tears from falling. To keep from screaming. Memories are coming back to her in waves, tormenting her and forcing her to relive the worst moments of her miserable life. She wishes Delphine never gave her that damn letter, and just when she is about to fall into despair the unmistakable sound of an arrow being unleashed yanks her back to reality.

The arrow plunges into Arnbjorn's shoulder with a wet thud.

He staggers forward, stunned. Lumen spots the archer and lets a dagger fly, the blade burying itself deep in the archer's chest. There is a moment of silence and then the forest erupts with the clamor of battle cries and swords being unsheathed. Four furious bandits leap from the trees as the fifth lies dead on the side of the road.

The bandits are not inexperienced, but Lumen has been on edge for hours, and the chance to spill blood is a welcome distraction from the anxiety that has been eating away at her. She leaps from her horse with Dragonbane in her hands, the ancient, enchanted blade slicing through leather armor and flesh as easily as a hot knife slices through butter. Two bandits fall by her hand, as two others converge on Arnbjorn.

Arnbjorn growls in pain from the arrowhead lodged in his shoulder, and while the wound does not prevent him from swinging his giant battle axe, it does slow him down a bit. Lumen goes to his aid, rushing up behind a bandit and spearing him with Dragonbane as Arnbjorn relieves the man of his head. Lumen turns away from the spray of blood, groaning in disgust when she feels it coating her hair and the side of her face. Arnbjorn is similarly covered in the man's blood, but he doesn't flinch or even give pause. Instead, he spins around to attack the last, remaining bandit who is staring in horror at the lolling head of her companion. The flat side of the axe smacks her in the head with a sickening pop, and she crumples to the ground.

"Damn it, elf," Arnbjorn growls, rounding on Lumen. It takes all her will not to take a step back. He is covered in blood, seething with rage and gripping his battle axe so tight his knuckles have turned white. "Don't tell me you didn't hear them coming!"

"What? I didn't hear anything until the archer shot the arrow!" Lumen wipes the blood from her face, her hands still shaking from the thrill of battle.

"It was too late at that point, wasn't it?" he snarls, dropping his axe to the ground and reaching for the arrow sticking out of his shoulder. Unfortunately for Arnbjorn, the arrow is just out of his reach. A fact that only serves to rile him further.

Lumen sheaths Dragonbane, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. "This is _not_ my fault!" she snaps, furious. Her mind had wandered, which is dangerous to do while traveling the roads of Skyrim, and she's even more upset that Arnbjorn has the audacity to call her out on it. "You should have heard them, or smelled them, or whatever your stupid werewolf powers do!"

"I told you to keep your damn eyes on the trees!" he snarls, finally giving up on trying to grab at the arrow. "Instead you had your head in the clouds!"

"It was an accident!" Lumen snaps, kicking at the body of the headless bandit.

"So was your birth!"

Lumen sucks in a deep, unsteady breath. Too angry to speak, and fearing that she might Shout Arnbjorn to pieces if she did. Instead, she stomps away from him to retrieve her dagger from the archer's corpse and search the bodies for anything valuable. Behind her, she can hear the shuffle of footsteps and a grunt as Arnbjorn sits down on a boulder to struggle with the arrow.

"I need you to pull the arrow out," he finally says, after a brief war with his pride.

There is an array of insults sitting on her tongue, just waiting to be unleashed. But Lumen keeps her spiteful comments unsaid, content to ignore Arnbjorn as long as she possibly can. So she acts as if she didn't hear him and continues to loot the bodies of the fallen bandits.

"Elf." he sighs. "Will you pull the arrow out… Please?"

Lumen hums quietly as she tugs the boots off of a dead bandit, and is rather pleased when a few septims come rolling out of one.

"Tidbit-"

 _That_ forces her to stop ignoring him. "Don't you 'tidbit' _me,_ you jackass!" she shrieks, lobbing the boot at him and just narrowly missing. "You don't get to yell at me and insult me, and then call me that! If you want my attention- if you want my _help_ , you will call me by my actual fucking name!"

He draws back, surprised by the force of her reaction. "Lumen," he says her name like it pains him. "Will you pull the arrow out?"

"I will try," she says, somewhat mollified by Arnbjorn complying with her wish. After collecting a waterskin and a clean rag from her pack, she carefully cleans the blood from the wound so she can better inspect it. "You were able to swing your axe, so I assume it's not in the bone. So, if nothing else, you've got that going for you."

"Thank the daedra for small favors, I guess," he mutters. "There's a skinning knife in my pack if you need to cut it out."

Lumen carefully pulls at the skin on either side of the wound, trying to get a better look at the arrowhead itself. "I think I can pull it out," she tells him. "It's going to hurt, though."

"It can't hurt any worse than it already does."

"Take a deep breath," she instructs, and when he does, Lumen carefully and quickly slides her fingers inside the gash. Gripping the arrow near the base of the arrowhead, she tugs once, twice, and upon the third attempt the arrow slides free.

Arnbjorn lets loose a deep, wheezing gasp of pain mingled with relief. "Shit…"

"Funny how the smallest injuries can often be the most painful," Lumen comments, tossing the arrow aside before applying pressure to the seeping wound on Arnbjorn's shoulder. "And before you ask, no, I don't know any healing spells. The best I can do is stitch it together."

"Later," he says, glancing up at the position of the sun in the sky. "I'm more concerned with finding a stream we can wash the blood off before we start to attract flies."

"And we probably shouldn't waltz into Ivarstead covered in gore, anyway."

"I don't know about you, but I certainly don't plan to do any waltzing," Arnbjorn says, a rare, true smile gracing his lips.

"That would be a sight to see," Lumen says, stepping away from him to minimize contact and to shake off the strange, awkward feeling coming over her. Are they actually… joking? Is Arnbjorn even capable of good humor, or did one of the bandits bash him over the head when she wasn't looking?

"Hey, um- thank you, by the way," he says gruffly. "For taking the arrow out."

"You're welcome," she says, half-stunned.

"I can't believe you threw a boot at me."

Lumen grins. "Well, I wasn't going to throw the gold!"

To her immense surprise, Arnbjorn actually _laughs_.

* * *

There isn't much that frightens Nazir. Not after traveling the world, and certainly not after joining up with the Dark Brotherhood. But when the Night Mother's Keeper strides into the Sanctuary _without_ Lumen or Arnbjorn, Nazir breaks out into a cold sweat. He needs the Listener around to control the Keeper, and the Brotherhood needs the Listener around to, well, Listen. If she's dead, the Brotherhood will fall apart all over again, and Nazir doesn't think he could handle it a second time.

He watches Cicero trot down the stairs leading to the communal area. "Where is she?" he asks, the urgency in his voice betraying his normally stoic expression. "What happened?"

"Oh, not to worry! The Listener and Arnbjorn are on their way to Ivarstead to speak with the Greybeards," Cicero chirps, dumping his traveling pack in a chair and scurrying over the kitchen fire. He peers into the cooking pot, the contents of a potato and leek stew boiling within. "Is this done? Cicero is _starving_."

"Er- yes. It should be," Nazir says, staring at the jester pilfering the dinner he'd made for himself. Good thing he made extra. "Am I to assume you two managed to work out your differences with Arnbjorn?"

"For the most part," Cicero says, and Nazir doesn't miss how the man's brow furrows slightly. "Cicero does not know when they will be home, perhaps a week. Perhaps more. It depends on how long it takes sweet Lumen to learn a Shout that will knock a dragon from the sky."

Nazir isn't sure what to make of that information. He'll leave the dragon-killing to the Dragonborn and just focus on what he's good at; murder and money. "Right, well. Hopefully she comes home sooner rather than later. We still have plenty of gold left over from the emperor contract but it won't last us forever."

Cicero ladles stew into two bowls, placing one in front of Nazir and setting the other down for himself. "Lumen wrote a letter for you," he says, pulling said letter from his pocket and handing it to Nazir before taking a seat. "She wants to start looking for new recruits and she also said Cicero is to help!"

"Oh, good," Nazir breathes. "Babette is actually tracking down a potential recruit as we speak. I was afraid the Listener might not be happy with us taking the initiative but- well, it was getting rather boring around here." He takes the Listener's letter, flipping it open and scanning the contents of the very brief, explicative-filled set of instructions. "Her writing is as crude as she is," he laughs.

Cicero grins. "The Listener was in one of her moods when she wrote that."

He sets the letter aside, running his fingers over his knotted beard. "Astrid and I had a list of potential recruits. The list was lost in the fire, and I don't remember any of the names, but there was one man in particular who was at the top of the list. We just hadn't gotten around the recruiting him yet."

There is a short moment of tense silence at the mention of Astrid's name, but eventually Cicero asks, "Do you know where Cicero might find this man?"

"Morthal," Nazir says, willing himself to remember more and coming up short. Not a surprise, really. So much had happened between then and now. "He lives out in the swamps." Nazir sighs in frustration. "I don't remember his name. I think it started with an L, but I can't be certain. He is a mage. A fairly young one, if I recall correctly."

"Ah, it does not matter. Cicero will find him," he says cheerfully. "So what did the swamp-mage do to attract the attention of the Dark Brotherhood?"

"I am not sure," Nazir says, breaking off a piece of bread to dip in his stew. "All I know is that he's rather skilled at getting in and out of places undetected. A valuable skill for any assassin."

"This is not much to go on," Cicero comments in between bites of his stew. "Not much at all."

"What, you mean you don't want to go searching for a nameless mage through the swamps of Morthal?" Nazir grins at the Keeper. "If you're not up to the challenge, I can go instead," he offers, though he would really rather not.

"Cicero did not say anything of the sort, he just wishes he had a name or a definite location. This is all a bit vague," he says, shrugging. "But is does not matter. Cicero is very good at finding things and he will find this swamp-mage."

"I have the utmost faith in your abilities, Keeper," Nazir murmurs, grinning at the unconvinced look Cicero throws his way.

With his bowl scraped clean, Cicero sighs contentedly before pushing away from the table. "Cicero will leave for Morthal tomorrow," he tells Nazir. "Tonight Cicero must tend to Mother, and to do that he does require some privacy."

"Say no more, Keeper," Nazir says, grabbing the empty bowls from the table to wash them. He has absolutely no desire to find out what the Keeping Ritual entails, anyway. "I'll clean up in here and then retire for the night. You and the Night Mother will have all the privacy you need."

* * *

It is not difficult for Cicero to figure out where the mysterious swamp-mage is hiding. After plying a drunk guard with just enough mead to loosen his already wagging tongue, he tells Cicero there is a mage out in the swamps who does odd experiments. What kind of experiments, the guard does not know, he only mentions that he's glad the man has the decency to live outside the city limits, unlike Falion. The innkeeper tells him the mage occasionally comes to the city for a bite to eat and to visit the local alchemist, and then he leaves and he won't be seen again for weeks on end.

Cicero finds this all very interesting. If the mage is an expert at remaining concealed, then he's only letting the townsfolk see what he wants them to see, and Cicero wants to know what the mage doesn't want them to see. What could he be up to?

The night is rather eerie. The aurora has fizzled out and Secunda is in full, casting a strange, pale light across the foggy marsh. Masser is waxing, and is merely a small, sliver of red in the night sky. It's the perfect night for a hunt. But Cicero's knows this particular hunt will not end in a kill. Or it shouldn't, at least. Not unless things go horribly wrong and the mage tries to kill him first, in which case, Cicero will have to teach him a lesson.

The mage's house is hidden away in a thick, grove of evergreen trees, and Cicero would not have seen it had it not been for the faintest flicker of firelight seeping beneath the gap in between the door and the doorjamb. As Cicero draws nearer to the small cabin, the sounds of the night become almost deafening. Strange birds squawk in the trees and there are loudly buzzing insects hovering over the near stagnant waters of the swamp. The closer he moves to the cabin, the stronger the smell of death becomes. It is so strong, in fact, that he actually blanches. And while it's too dark to see them, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that there are bodies rotting in the water. Not just a normal mage then. What could he be? A necromancer? A maniacal vivisectionist? A cannibal? The possibilities are endless and Cicero cannot wait to find out.

The hint of danger in the air makes all of Cicero's senses become more alive. The darkness of the night fades, and all movement slows. He moves carefully through the knee-high brush, sticking to higher, drier ground, lest his boots get stuck in the mud. He must have made a mistake somewhere, some, noisy misstep that gave him away. Or perhaps, what happens next is nothing more than a silly coincidence.

The door opens, and in it, stands a tall, skinny Nord mage. His short blond hair is illuminated by the candlelight within his cabin, surrounding him in a strange, otherworldly aura. The odd, forced smile upon his lips reminds Cicero of his own.

"Oh, my. What do we have here?" he asks in a voice more befitting of a teenage girl than a full grown man. "A hunter? A larcener?" He pauses, his gaze traveling across Cicero's form and eventually landing on the ebony blade strapped to his belt. The mage is half-blind. A fact Cicero plans to use to his advantage if he chooses to fight. One eye is a bright, baby blue, while the other is sightless and milky-white. "A fellow traveler, I see."

"An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood, to be exact." Cicero fingers the hilt of his blade, ready to draw it at a moments notice. "I am not here to kill you, though. Oh, no. The Dark Brotherhood wishes to recruit you," he says, his voice dropping into that low, seldom used timbre. "Interested?"

The young mage is stunned silent for a moment, his eyes wide as he processes all that Cicero has said. Finally, his mouth pulls back into a wide smile and he says, "Absolutely." He wavers on the spot, his fingers twisting into his filthy, bloodstained robes. "Oh, oh. Where are my manners. Won't you come in?"

Cicero reminds himself to be on guard, for the mage's friendly demeanor could be nothing more than a facade. But he nods his acquiescence. "My name is Cicero, by the way. And you are?"

"My name is Luka."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that last line is a quote from a Suzanne Vega song. I couldn't help myself. :) I've been looking forward to introducing Luka for quite some time. Anyway, this is kind of a bridge chapter, but I think the characterization within is important. 
> 
> Next chapter: Cicero's adventures in Morthal continue, Babette visits an old friend, and Lumen and Arnbjorn continue their travels. But will they make it to High Hrothgar? Will Arnbjorn feed her to the frost troll, or will she Shout him off the mountain? It remains to be seen...


	22. Broken Days

"Pardon the mess."

The young mage says the words as nonchalantly as someone who is apologizing for a few dishes stacked upon a counter, rather than a few dissected corpses. The floorboards of the small, filthy shack are stained with blood. In fact, so much has been spilled here, the floor is almost soggy and soaked through in some places. The air is thick with the putrid scent of decay, and the oddly sweet odor of crushed Nightshade and other alchemical ingredients.

"Ah, not to worry," Cicero says lightly, even though he is fairly certain he won't be able to wash the scent of the shack from his clothes. Which is something that annoys him to no end. "What exactly are you doing here?"

"Oh, I- I'm just practicing," Luka says, his words trailing off into a strange, breathy giggle. "I am trying to create a better thrall. Stronger. Longer lived. My experiments got me kicked out of the College of Winterhold. They did not approve of my methods for procuring corpses. Actually, they did not approve of my experiments at all! Idiots accused me of necromancy and murder, which is true, of course. But they were just so _rude_ about it. So- I came here, to Morthal, to work in peace."

"Cicero apologizes for disturbing your peace, then. But the Dark Brotherhood has had their eye on you for your ability to sneak in and out of places unseen." He watches with interest as a smile lights up the young Nord's face.

"I can't believe you aren't here to kill me," he laughs, and is it just Cicero's imagination or does he seem a little disappointed? "I wouldn't be surprised if you were, I've been raiding the Hall of the Dead for fresh corpses and I thought surely someday, someone would find out and want revenge."

"Lucky for you, the Dark Brotherhood noticed before anyone else did." Cicero curiously eyes a corpse laid out on the table. "Tell me, are all your corpses from the Hall of the Dead? Or are some a bit… fresher?"

Luka grins at him. "Sometimes I have to take care of a nosey guard, or a lost wanderer who's come a bit too close to my home. The freshly dead make for better thralls. Better circulation, and better muscle response than those that have been idle and rotting for a few days."

"Cicero can see you have no problem killing for your experiments, but would you be able to kill for the Dark Brotherhood. For the Night Mother?" Cicero asks. "And, most importantly, would you be able to resist the temptation to thrall them?"

"What? Of course I can resist," Luka says, folding his arms and frowning in offence. "I'm a man of science, not a psychotic monster."

An interesting statement coming from a man with intestines splattered on his boots. But Cicero shrugs and says, "Good, because I have a test for you. All Dark Brotherhood initiates must prove they are able to follow orders and kill on command."

The promise of a kill has the man smiling again. "That makes perfect sense," Luka nods. "Just tell me what to do."

It's not often that humble, subservient Cicero is thrust into a position of authority, and it's all a bit surreal, but no less enjoyable. How many fantasies has he entertained of being the Listener? Of being the one in control? Of being Mother's chosen? Too many to count, that's for certain. And now, he has a young Nord watching him eagerly and waiting for his command. It's going to be a challenge to keep this tiny, modicum of power from going straight to his head.

"The contract is for the Orc bard, Lurburk. Surely you have had the displeasure of hearing him play, yes?" It does annoy him to use one of Astrid's lingering contracts. But Nazir told him the Dark Brotherhood had already been paid for the contract. Months ago, in fact, and it would not do to sully their reputation by leaving it unfulfilled. In the end, it doesn't matter that the Black Sacrament was not performed for this particular kill. It is a test, and nothing more.

"Oh, _him_ ," Luka sighs. "Yes, I have had the honor of suffering through his so-called songs whenever I visit the Moorside Inn. It will be a relief to kill him."

"Feel free to dispatch the bard in anyway you wish," Cicero says, then he grins widely at the young mage. "But Cicero is inclined to give bonus points for creativity."

"Oh, good! Murder is more fun if you put a little artistic flair in it!" Luka says, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. "I mean, I could always just beat him to death with the lute, or stab him, or set him on fire, but that's just so… normal. Average. I hate being nothing more than average. Who wants to be an average assassin?"

Amazing how in the span of a few seconds, the mage suddenly becomes infinitely more interesting to Cicero. Oh, he likes the swamp-mage, yes he does. Lumen and the rest of their little family might not. The mage does tend to ramble on and on, but Cicero does not mind. "Make your decision and make your kill, initiate," he purrs. "Cicero just wants to observe."

"Right." he says, chewing on his rather filthy, gore-caked fingernail as he mulls something over. "May I still continue my experiments if I am an assassin for the Dark Brotherhood? Obviously I can't use our contracts. I get that our clients will want people killed in specific ways. Left out in the open to prove a point and so on. But I cannot be deprived of my intellectual pursuits. I would go stark raving mad!"

"Of course, _of course_ , dear mage. But as long as you do them here. The Listener complains enough as it is, and Cicero knows she would complain if the Sanctuary smelled like rotting corpses."

"Understandable, but-" Luka waves his hand dismissively. "You get used to the smell after a while, you know."

"I assure you, she will not," Cicero tells him. He has no desire to endure the particular scent on a daily basis, either. "So, are you ready?"

"Yes, just let me change into some clean robes. I've been working all day and all night and I am a mess." After making the understatement of the era, Luka wipes his grungy hands on his equally grungy robes. "It would be a shame if the bard smells me coming, you know? Anyway, give me a moment and I'll be ready."

Cicero nods and steps out of the one-room shack to allow the young mage some privacy. He can't help but smile to himself upon having a successful meeting. In his youth, he always wanted to ascend to the rank of Speaker, but he bypassed it when they made him Keeper. And while he takes his duties to the Night Mother seriously, it is so good to be in an active Sanctuary again, and to be given responsibilities outside of Keeping.

Luka exits the shack, wearing a robe that is only slightly less filthy than the last. Cicero raises a brow, and the mage shrugs. "Hard to do laundry in a swamp," he explains. "Are you ready?"

"Let's kill someone," Cicero says with a grin.

In the end, Lurburk dies with the strings from his broken lute wound around his neck after Luka discovers that the neck of the instrument simply will not fit down his throat. "Ah, well. Trial and error. I'll get this right someday," the mage reasons, while Cicero bites into his knuckle to keep from laughing at the ludicrous spectacle. The mage probably should've killed the bard _before_ attempting to turn him into an Orc-sized lute. But, as Luka said; trial and error. Regardless, Cicero has a good feeling about this new initiate.

Once finished, the young Nord turns to where Cicero is lurking in the shadows. "Did I do well?" he asks, breathless and eager for praise.

"You did very well." Cicero moves from the shadows and steps into the dim light of the Orc's bedroom. "But, well, Cicero is curious. You could have killed the bard with magic, but you did not. Why?"

Luka shrugs. "I thought a fireball would be a bit obvious," he tells him. "What if he saw it coming? What if someone outside heard it or sensed a flare of magic? It seemed a bit risky to do that here."

"Surely _someone_ heard his screams."

"Bah, they'll just think he was practicing his next _masterpiece_ ," he says, drawing out the last word with ample amounts of sarcasm.

Cicero could not be more pleased. Not only is the mage cautious and aware of his surroundings, but he knew of his mark's rather notable lack of talent, and he used that to his advantage. Luka is going to do very well. Very well, indeed. "Let's go home, _brother_."

* * *

Ivarstead is exactly as Lumen remembers, cold and boring. The stew being served at Vilemyr Inn could be described in the same way, but she's glad to be eating a real meal instead of travel rations. It feels good to be off her feet, to be able to warm herself by a fire, and to have a full stomach. It is almost pleasant, and it would be if she had better company. At least she and Arnbjorn have been tolerant of each other ever since the bandit attack.

Her silent companion is sitting across the table from her, consuming a tankard of mead and completely ignoring her in favor of a book. _A book_. Who knew the Nord could read? And furthermore, who knew he enjoyed it? Lumen sighs and reaches for her own tankard, her eyes falling on the thin, crescent of crimson trapped beneath her thumbnail. A memento of death taken from one of the bandits. It doesn't matter which one it came from. All that matters is that it's _there_ , comforting her and tormenting her in equal measure. The dried blood tugs at her soul, urging her to leave the inn and this ridiculous quest behind, and to satisfy her deepest, darkest desires.

It's getting more and more difficult to ignore those desires with each, passing day. How long has it been since she had a proper, Altmer playmate? Too damn long. And Lumen wants nothing more than to drag her fingertips across recently dead flesh, to gaze into lifeless, glassy eyes, and to savor the scent of blood, and sweat, and tears cloying in the air. Torture is fun, and killing is easy, but it's the thrill of the hunt and the silence when all is said and done is what Lumen so desperately _needs_. She absentmindedly chews on her fingernail, allowing herself a small taste of the blood beneath it. Her needs will have to remain unfulfilled for a while longer. Lumen sincerely doubts there will be any Altmer to be found in Ivarstead or on the Throat of the World. But she swears to herself that when this is all over, she will find one, and they will get to know each other very, very well.

"Is there a reason why you're eating your hand?"

Arnbjorn's voice pulls Lumen from her thoughts, and she places her hands in her lap to keep from chewing her nail down to a nub. "Yes," she admits. "But I'd rather not discuss it."

He stares at her for a moment, silent and calculating, and likely seeing more than Lumen wants him to. But then he smirks and says, "The stew isn't _that_ bad."

"It isn't that good, either."

"You need to eat something," he says gruffly. "You're going to need your strength for the climb. I don't want to deal with your passing out from hunger halfway up."

"That wouldn't be so bad, you could just throw me over your shoulder and carry me the rest of the way." Lumen offers him a half-hearted smile. She knows he's right but she'll not give him the satisfaction of hearing the words. Instead, she silently concedes to his point by grabbing a sweet roll from a nearby plate. It's a bit stale, but it will taste better than the bland stew.

Arnbjorn shakes his head. "I'm not that nice," he says, turning his attention back to his book.

Lumen quietly chews a bite of pastry. The icing has developed a hard shell, but the inside is still sticky and sweet. "You said you've made this climb before," she says.

He doesn't look up from his book. "I have."

"Tell me about it."

"There's not much to tell," Arnbjorn says, closing his book with a sigh. "My father and I would stop at each shrine. He would pray, while I would pretend to. We would make it all the way to the top, and then turn around and go home."

"Sounds boring."

"It was. I always looked forward to being attacked by wild, starving wolves just because it gave me something to do." Arnbjorn takes a swig of his mead, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But why ask me? You made the climb once, right? You know what it's like up there."

"I did. And I never wanted to do it again," Lumen sighs. "But here we are..."

"Is it the climb you're worried about, or is it something else?" he asks, his voice warmer than Lumen ever remembers it being. "I know when someone is trying to fill the silence with idle conversation."

"I..." Lumen doesn't know what to say. He probably would understand her need to hunt, but it's too personal. But it's not as if her need to hunt is the only thing on her mind. "I'm just worried about all this Dragonborn business. The responsibility is overwhelming," she tells him. "Why didn't Akatosh choose some Big Damn Hero instead of me?"

"What the history books fail to mention is how ruthless and unsympathetic all our Big Damn Heroes really were," Arnbjorn says, his voice low and even. "You don't get caught up in debates of what is right and what is wrong. You know the difference, but you don't give a shit, either. You just do what needs to be done regardless of how your actions affect others." He pauses, his fingers idly drumming against the table. "Sometimes, that kind of ruthlessness is what's needed to survive."

"I figured courage and selflessness would be the qualities the Divines would look for in a potential Dragonborn," Lumen sighs, pushing the half eaten sweet roll aside. "You don't really believe I'm what the gods wanted, do you?"

"You may not be what they wanted, but you're what they got," Arnbjorn says, breathing a mirthless laugh. "And you will either succeed, or you won't. But fretting and whining about what's expected of you, and what might happen, is a waste of time. You can't know what will happen until it does, so stop worrying about your responsibilities and just face them when the time comes."

"Wow. I thought talking about this would make me feel better, but I actually feel much worse," Lumen says with a sneer. "So thanks for that."

A slow grin spreads across his lips. "If you want false platitudes or empty assurances that everything will be okay, I'm not your man. It's better for you to know the truth of what you face, and the reality of what is expected of you. Otherwise you'll be blindsided when everything comes to a head."

Lumen drags her hand down her face. "Well, uh, thanks for being so honest. The future never felt so bleak."

"Anytime, tidbit."

* * *

One of the most important lessons Babette ever learned is that you do not enter a vampire's home uninvited. It's impolite, for one, and often a deadly faux pas. But that is exactly what she's planning to do. Not only is Reachcliff cave the home of a vampire, but a cult of daedra worshippers as well. Namira worshippers, to be exact. _Cannibals_. She is in no danger of being eaten, however. Vampires taste terrible, from what she's been told, and the vampire within will know she's coming before she even steps over the threshold. They share the same sire, and they are eternally linked as a result.

She hasn't seen her blood-brother in so long, she almost forgot about him. But he caused quite a commotion when he returned Lord Harkon's daughter to Volkihar Keep, and he caused a veritable tidal wave of gossip when he refused Harkon's invitation to join his court. Vampires are not social creatures and most don't particularly like each other, but when there is gossip to be shared, they will deign to speak to each other.

After minimal searching, Babette finally comes across the ornate, iron doors carved into the side of a small hill. With a grunt of effort, she pulls them open and steps into the cool, damp air of the crypt. She makes her way through the crypt, and then finally steps into a large chamber with an obsidian dining table dominating the center, and at the far end, is Namira's Shrine. Black as the Void itself, dripping in the blood of a fresh kill, and seething with the raw, volatile power that only a daedra can wield.

"Ah, it seems that my dear, little sister has come to pay us a visit," drawls a deep, cultured voice, and Babette's attention is drawn to the two figures seated at the head of the dining table. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Babette?"

Babette moves closer to the pair, Cyril's gaunt, pale face illuminated by the light of a far-off brazier and the glow of his eyes. His partner, a short, curvy Breton, is perched beside him on the arm of his chair, watching the little vampire curiously. "I'm here on behalf of the Dark Brotherhood," she tells him. "I'm here to invite you to our family."

Cyril breathes a laugh. "Astrid never wanted me before. What has changed?"

"Everything has changed," Babette says. "Astrid is dead and our old Sanctuary lies in ruins. We have a new home and a new leader now. A Listener who follows the will of the Night Mother."

"And if this new leader- this _Listener_ , wants me to join, why didn't she come fetch me herself?"

"She's- taking care of another matter. But I think she would appreciate what you can bring to our family. You've always been good at what you do."

Cyril's female companion laughs. "Killing is easy when you can charm your victims," she says. "I'm Eola, by the way, and where the Cyril goes, I go. So does this Dark Brotherhood invitation extend to me as well?"

"Am I to assume it would be an issue if it didn't?" Babette watches the two of them carefully. While she trusts Cyril, she doesn't know if his female companion can be trusted as well.

"It would not be an issue but-" he pauses, tilting his head toward Eola, his black hair slipping across his shoulders as he twines his hand with hers. "I would prefer to keep her near. And, for what it's worth, I think she would make a fine assassin."

Babette regards the Altmer vampire and his Breton companion. She came here to acquire Cyril and nothing more, but the Dark Brotherhood is certainly in need of new initiates. There's no harm in extending an invitation to Eola, assuming she can control herself. "I suppose I could also extend the invitation to you as well, but well- just keep in mind that there are certain rules people like us have to follow."

"People like us," Eola says slowly, her full lips curling into an amused grin. "You mean to say, I shouldn't have our contracts for dinner?"

Babette nods. "Rumors of cannibalism within the Brotherhood could negatively affect our business. Unless the contract specifically calls for a victim to be eaten."

"Do not worry, Babette. Eola and I can control ourselves. Cyril says. "But, tell me, will our… preferences be a problem? In my experience, most people are not comfortable around cannibals and vampires."

"I don't think so," Babette says, tapping her chin. "I mean, the Listener barely reacted when she found out what I am, and as for the cannibalism... Well, she _is_ a Bosmer, but she's not a traditional type, so I cannot say."

"Will I have to go through yet another initiation?" Cyril asks, sounding as bored as ever. "I don't mind, obviously. But I proved to Astrid that I could kill for her before she decided she didn't like me very much."

Babette heaves a long suffering sigh. Altmer and their neverending grudges. "You insulted both Astrid _and_ her husband, you're lucky you weren't killed," she says, trying to keep her voice level. "And I don't know if the Listener will ask you to go through another initiation. She might."

"Ah, yes. Once again I will find myself vying for the approval of some mortal in charge of a den of cutthroats," Cyril sniffs. "Wonderful."

"The Listener is no mere mortal, Cyril."

"Really? How so?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow in interest. "You've already established that she communicates with the Night Mother. Is there more to her than that?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell you that," Babette says. "Ask her when you meet her."

"Well, I admit, that does make things more interesting," he says, sharing a look with Eola. "Very well, send your Listener to me if she's interested." Cyril shifts in his chair, resting his chin on his hand and offering Babette a fanged grin. "Now, on to more important matters, would you like to stay for dinner? It's been ages since we last spoke, and I expect we have much to tell each other."

"I would love to," Babette says, as she primly takes a seat at the table. "I'm positively _famished_."

* * *

Lumen cranes her neck, staring up at a mountain that's so unfathomably tall, the very top cannot be seen because of the clouds. She doesn't want to do this. If it weren't for the tantalizing possibility of learning a Shout that will bring a dragon to its knees, assuming they even have knees, she wouldn't be here at all. She would be at home, in her Sanctuary, snuggled up under a pile of blankets with Cicero. Her chest aches at the thought of him. It's only been a few days and she already misses him so badly it hurts.

" _Great, I'm pining. What the fuck is wrong with me?"_

It's hard for Lumen not to think of herself as weak for needing someone in her life so badly. It's ridiculous. More than that, it's dangerous and stupid. How many times has she been on a hunt and encountered her target's lover? And how many times has the dangled the life of said lover right before her target's eyes, convincing them to do anything for her. To follow her. To be at her mercy. It's a vulnerable position, and not one Lumen ever wants to find herself in.

But she can't deny how she feels. What surprises her the most is the fact that she does feel. So many lovers had come in and out of her life, and she hadn't spared much of a care for them. They served their purpose, and when the moment had passed, Lumen moved on. But everything is different with Cicero. She had known she was a lost cause from the very first moment he smiled at her. There had been so much intensity within his eyes, she barely noticed his vulpine smile. But when she did, her stomach twisted itself into little knots of heat, and at that very moment, she knew she was completely and utterly doomed.

" _No, this is far beyond pining. I'm positively languishing now. This has to stop."_

Lumen turns her gaze away from the mountain to where Arnbjorn is. He's standing at the other end of the bridge, speaking with a man who asked them to take some rations up to the Greybeards. A conversation which should have been short, but at least fifteen minutes have passed, and judging by the smiles and laughter, the two men are not talking about rations any longer. They're just wasting _her_ time.

With a sigh, Lumen walks over to join the two men, who both pause their conversation when she approaches. "Are we ready to go?" she asks. "Not that I'm in any particular hurry to freeze my tits off, but I'd rather do so in the daylight."

Arnbjorn bids the man farewell, and then turns to Lumen. "Just getting the local news," he says, sounding annoyed that his conversation was cut short.

"That looked more like gossip than news."

"Is there a difference?" Arnbjorn asks, adjusting his heavy, fur cloak as he leads Lumen toward the first rung of the mountain path. "Are you sure you want to do this today? The weather seems right for a storm."

"The skies are clear," she says, incredulous. "Well- aside from the cloud around the top of the mountain, but that's always there."

"You've lived in Skyrim long enough to know how quickly the weather can change." Arnbjorn stops near the first shrine, using it to knock some snow from his heavy boots. "I can withstand a snowstorm, but I'm not so sure about you."

"I've endured worse."

"You have, huh?"

"Yeah," she says, pushing past him and continuing up the sloping path. "I've endured your company, haven't I?"

Arnbjorn snorts. "I'm being serious," he says, grabbing Lumen by her cloak to force her to a stop. "If a storm hits Ivarstead we might be high up enough that it doesn't affect us too much, but the winds will kick up a lot of the snow on the mountain and we won't be able to see."

Lumen yanks her cloak from his grip with a growl. "The weather seems fine right now, so maybe if we hurry up and get moving, we'll miss the storm altogether," she snaps. "Or is the Big Bad Wolf afraid of a little snow?"

The look he gives her should make her nervous. But Lumen is too determined to get this entire, unpleasant venture over with as quickly as possible, and if it means she has to harass Arnbjorn into doing what she wants, so be it.

"Fine." He grabs her by the cloak again, only instead of yanking her backward, he heaves her forward. "If you're in such a gods damned hurry, then you should start walking faster," he growls, and tromps along beside her, practically dragging her up the mountain path.

"Let me go!" Lumen twists in his grip, trying in vain to escape. "I can walk on my own, you ass!"

The bickering between the two assassins goes on until they are attacked by wolves after they pass the third shrine containing an etched tablet. To Arnbjorn's mounting annoyance, Lumen had been trying to read them all, something she neglected to do on her first excursion up the mountain. But after the wolves, he made sure to use his strength against her, and drag her away from every subsequent shrine.

"This path is stupid," Lumen complains. "Up, and then down. Then up again. I doubt this is seven thousand steps. I bet it's more. No, wait. Maybe less?" Arnbjorn doesn't answer, and after a few moments of walking in silence Lumen says, "I'm cold. I can't feel my toes… Or my butt."

"Less bitching, more walking!" he snarls, dragging her along through the knee deep snow. He wasn't wrong about a storm hitting Ivarstead, a fact that grates on Lumen. The winds from the storm stir the snow along the mountain, chilling the air and making it hard to see. "This was a mistake, I knew we should've waited another day or two."

Lumen winces as the snow carried on the wind stings at her face. "Okay, okay. _I was wrong_. There. Are you happy?" Her admission stings as much as the snow. But between her exhaustion and the freezing cold, she doesn't have the energy for anymore verbal sparring with Arnbjorn.

"No," he sighs. "We need to stop. Make camp. It will be dark soon and it's already difficult to see. I'd rather not fall off the edge of the mountain if I can help it."

"Make camp?" she asks, shivering. "There's nowhere to make camp. We can't even build a proper fire!"

"I know we can't," Arnbjorn says, resigned. "We'll have to share a tent to keep warm."

The chill Lumen feels has nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with the prospect of sharing close quarters with Arnbjorn. "I don't know about that," she says, making no effort to hide how uncomfortable she is with the idea. "It's weird."

" _I know_." Arnbjorn stomps over to a small niche in the rocky ledge and begins to clear accumulated snow away. There's not enough room to set up a proper camp, but there is just enough room for one tent. "I know it's weird, considering..." he sighs, the topic of their ill-fated tryst still a difficult subject to broach.

"Well," she begins lightly. "At least it's too cold to, uh, well. _You know_. For what it's worth, my clothes will be staying on."

Arnbjorn glares at her. "Tidbit, I assure you, if I was trying to get in your pants, I'd be more suave than suggesting we share a tent so we don't freeze to death."

" _Suave_." Lumen breathes a laugh. "There are many words I would use to describe you, but that one never came to mind."

"Will you please shut up and help me clear this snow away?"

"Oh, fine," Lumen sighs.

Once most the snow has been cleared, Lumen quickly learns that pitching a tent in the middle of a snowstorm is not an easy task. Even with the edge of a rocky niche blocking some of the wind, it's still a struggle. But after many minutes of fumbling and cursing, the two assassins manage to erect the small, canvas tent. Lumen crawls inside instantly, while Arnbjorn piles snow along the edges of the canvas to weigh it down. With nothing to tie the tent down, and no rocks available, snow is the only option.

Arnbjorn ducks inside the tent, quickly tying the flaps shut and sitting down next to Lumen. The tent is barely large enough for him, but the addition of an extra body means the area is quite cramped. She tugs her cloak tightly around her body, curling into herself and shivering. Lumen is almost grateful for the distraction of being so cold, otherwise the awkward tension inside the tent would be overwhelming.

"The weather should clear up in a few hours," Arnbjorn says, his voice barely audible over the chattering of Lumen's teeth. "May as well get some sleep while we can."

"I'm too cold to sleep," Lumen complains. "My _everything_ is numb. I don't understand why you aren't shivering, too!"

"It's a Nord thing." Arnbjorn rustles through his pack, procuring a tinderbox to light a small travel lantern with. It doesn't put off much light, but it's enough to read by, which is exactly what Arnbjorn intends to do. He pulls a book from his pack, setting it down near the lantern and flipping it open to a dog-eared page.

For someone who is stuck in a tent with someone he'd rather not be stuck in a tent with, on the side of a mountain, in a blizzard, Arnbjorn seems rather at ease. "What are you reading?" Lumen asks, craning her neck to get a better look at the text on the page.

He lowers his head, hunching his shoulders slightly, and though Lumen can only see his silhouette, she gets the distinct impression that Arnbjorn is a little embarrassed. "Legend of Red Eagle," he says quickly. "Madanach noticed me flipping through it when we were at his camp. He said I could have it if I was interested."

"That's not very Nordly of you," she says, before giving in to a rather violent shiver. "Dammit."

"I enjoy stories, I don't care who or what they're about," he snaps. There's a moment of tense silence when all that can be heard are Lumen's shuddering breaths. "I think I would enjoy this one more if I could focus over the chattering of your teeth."

"I wish I could stop shivering, b-but I can't seem to get warm," Lumen whines, distantly aware of Arnbjorn abandoning his book and moving somewhere, doing something, but she's too cold to care what. "How do the Greybeards live on this miserable, snowy rock? And why did the weather go to shit? It was perfectly _fine_ the first time I climbed this stupid mountain."

"Stop complaining," Arnbjorn grumbles from behind her.

He tugs her cloak away, and Lumen yelps from the sudden loss of heat. She doesn't complain for long, because Arnbjorn's chest is pressing against her back, and he settles a leg on either side of her body as he wraps her cloak around them both. The Nord radiates heat like a campfire, but the warmth of his body is nothing compared to the burning blush forming on her cheeks.

"What are you doing?" she grits out through clenched teeth.

"I'm trying to keep you warm, you idiot," he answers, his warm breath tickling against the back of her neck. "If you die on this mountain, the clown will be more insufferable than he already is."

"I'm not going to die. I'll be fine." Lumen shifts within the confines of his arms. Being so close to him after all that's transpired is incredibly awkward. "Let me go."

"Are you stupid?"

"No," she _thinks_ she says. He doesn't understand. How could he? How could he know what his hot breath upon her ear is doing to her? How could he know that he's invoking a very recent memory of a very different circumstance? In her delirious mind, she feels Cicero's breath ghosting along the shell of her ear, his lithe torso pressing against her back and his hands... _wandering_.

"Don't-" she gasps, remembering what happened the last time she let her desire get the better of her. "Don't breathe on me."

"Is my breath that bad?" he asks, barely restraining a laugh.

Lumen buries her head in her hands, realizing she's going to have to admit something she'd rather not. "No- it's just- my ears are really sensitive and you keep breathing on them. I- I need you to stop doing that."

The silence that follows her admission is deafening. " _Oh_ ," he finally says, then flinches and turns his head so that he's not breathing on her. "Sorry- and sorry, again. I didn't know."

"It's fine," she says stiffly. "Anyway, you don't have to do _this_. I'll warm up on my own."

"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable," Arnbjorn admits, sounding rather uncomfortable himself. "I'm just trying to help, but if you want me to move, I will."

"I suppose I am fine as long as you are," she says, relaxing a bit. "You are very warm. Is that a Nord thing or is it because your head is full of hot air?"

"Watch it, or I'll toss you out in the snow," he says. But despite his threat, she can hear the smile in his voice.

Feeling a little more comfortable with the odd situation, Lumen leans against Arnbjorn, greedily seeking more warmth. While their history may be muddled and extremely awkward, she can't deny that he _is_ incredibly warm. "This is still weird," she points out. "But I'm too warm to care. So, um- thanks."

Arnbjorn chuffs a laugh. "You're welcome, tidbit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That wonderfully awkward scene of Lumen and Arnbjorn trying to stay warm was suggested by Heiwako. Because we both love putting characters in awkward situations. Though… I think it ended up being kind of cute.
> 
> I am sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up. Work was rather busy last month and it really sapped my motivation.... and then Dragon Age: Inquisition happened and I’ve been spending a lot of my free time in Thedas. ;) 
> 
> Anyway, the next up: Lumen finally gets to meet our favorite Grandpa Dragon. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for the reviews, faves, follows, etc. Your support is what keeps me going! :3


	23. The Throat of The World

Lumen so dearly wishes the last few days have been nothing more than a bad dream, and rather than defeating dragons and taming a cranky werewolf, running the Dark Brotherhood is all that’s expected of her. A considerable task to be sure, but it’s definitely something she can do. She wants to be in her own bed, curled up next to Cicero. But despite how badly she wants it to be true, she cannot fool herself for long. The body she’s next to is too large, the arms around her are too bulky, and the smell is all wrong. Rather than the astringent scent of preserving oils, the body smells of leather and metal. 

With a sigh, Lumen finally opens her eyes and looks into Arnbjorn’s sleeping face. They had both fallen asleep when they could no longer fight their exhaustion, though she doubts he meant to continue holding her throughout the night. Judging by the way he’s clinging to her-- well, clearly she’s not the only one pining for someone who isn’t there. She wonders if he’s dreaming of Astrid, and she wonders how long it will take before he realizes her body feels all wrong. Too soft here, too wide there. And will he wake up and feel disappointed as well?

She tries to move, but his arms tighten around her, pulling her closer to him. It would be so easy to close her eyes again, to pretend she’s elsewhere and not on the side of some godsforsaken mountain with a werewolf who would probably kill her if she gave him yet another reason to. He’s warm, and she feels as safe with him as she does with Cicero, which is odd. Because she never feels _safe_. But she and Arnbjorn have made great strides toward friendship lately, which is-- _strange_. Could they be friends? Stranger still is the fact that Lumen would like it if they could be. 

“Arnbjorn,” she says, her voice still thick with sleep. “Wake up, we need to get going.”

“Do we?” he murmurs sleepily, pulling her closer and running a hand down her side, and over her hip.

“Shor’s bloody balls, Arnbjorn!” Lumen delivers a harsh kick to his shin before his hand travels any further down. “Wake up!”

His eyes snap open and he pushes away from her as if her very touch burns him. “Shit,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He offers no apology and no excuse, but he doesn’t need to. Lumen understands, even though it’s hard not to take his reaction _a little_ personally.

“It’s nearly dawn, I think.” She tries to keep her tone casual as she peeks outside their little tent. “It’s stopped snowing, too.”

“That’s good,” he says, his voice strained. “Maybe we can actually make it to High Hrothgar today.”

“Gods willing,” Lumen replies, trying to shake off the memory of their awkward awakening.

It doesn’t take them long to break camp, as simple as it is, and soon they are on their way toward High Hrothgar. The chilly hours pass by slowly. Most of the animals that live on the mountain haven't left their dens, and Lumen envies them for that. The snow may have passed but the air is painfully cold, and the snow dunes created by the strong winds have made the path difficult to travel.

“You know what I hate?”

“No,” Arnbjorn says with a sigh. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Snow,” she says, kicking at a small dune and sending a spray of snow into the air. “I hate snow. It’s cold and it’s _in my way_.” 

Arnbjorn snorts. “Complaining about it isn’t going to make it any better.”

“But I like complaining. It makes _me_ feel better.”

“You know, here I’ve been wondering what exactly you see in that clown,” Arnbjorn says as he helps Lumen over a particularly steep dune. “But now I am starting to wonder what he sees in you.”

“Don’t know,” Lumen says, then grunts when she finally frees her foot from some deep snow. “I guess you’ll have to ask him.”

Arnbjorn laughs at that, glancing back at Lumen with a smirk. “Do you think I’d get a straight answer if I did?”

She shakes her head, her voice a little breathless from the exertion. “Not a chance.”

They chat sporadically for the rest of their journey. Most of it consisting of Lumen asking him questions, and Arnbjorn obliging her by answering, even though she has the feeling he’d rather not talk at all. The questions are mundane, as are his answers, but the sound of idle chatter is certainly more pleasant than the sound of crunching snow. They do fall quiet after a while, until Arnbjorn decides to break the silence with a question of his own.

“So, how did this whole Dragonborn mess happen to you?”

Lumen groans, it’s not the first time she’s had to answer this particular question. “I helped some Whiterun guards kill a dragon, I took its soul, and the Greybeards summoned me. The end.”

“There’s more to this than what you’re telling me.” He glances at her, his eyes narrowed. “Why were you helping the guards in Whiterun?”

“The real question is why weren’t the Companions helping the guards? Bunch of muscle-bound layabouts,” Lumen grumbles. “No offense.”

Arnbjorn barks a laugh. “You've got a point,” he says. “Come on, spit it out. Give me the whole story.”

“It’s really not an interesting story,” she says, because it isn’t. Not to Lumen, anyway. It’s nothing more than a series of catastrophic failures. “It all started in Helgen, or outside of Helgen, I should say. I was traveling to Skyrim with a-- _a friend_. Anyway, we were ambushed by bandits when we crossed the border. I escaped; he didn’t. After that, I kept walking and as I passed Helgen, I saw a dragon flying off and an entire city on fire. I helped a wounded Stormcloak soldier make it back to his family in Riverwood, hoping for some kind of reward. They asked me to take a message to the Jarl of Whiterun. I was heading north anyway, so…” Lumen shrugs, pausing a moment to adjust her cloak. “After that, the Jarl asked for my help in dealing with a dragon and I agreed because I desperately needed the coin.”

“You must have been desperate to agree to that,” Arnbjorn comments. “Why did you come to Skyrim? I mean, you bitch and moan about the cold all the time. So I don’t understand why you even wanted to come here.”

“I didn’t want to. I needed to get out of Cyrodiil and get away from the Thalmor. Fat lot of good coming _here_ did.”

“Why were you running from the Thalmor? Are you a secret Talos worshipper?” he asks, smirking.

“No,” Lumen says, laughing at the very idea. “I made a Thalmor Justiciar very angry and I had to run for my life.” Her brief answer gives him cause to look her way, one eyebrow raised curiously. “All right, so it’s not quite that simple. But it’s not something I like to talk about.”

“I understand, tidbit,” he says, his voice slightly less caustic than normal. “I think we’re almost there, anyway.”

* * *

“Why are there more stairs?” Lumen whines. “Isn’t this place high enough?!”

Arnbjorn stands on one of the landings to High Hrothgar, just at the edge of a curved staircase with a petulant Bosmer at the base of it. “You just climbed a mountain and you’re going to complain about twenty steps?”

“Yes!” she snaps. “I just climbed a mountain! Climbed. A. Mountain. And I am tired and my legs are sore! It feels like my muscles are on fire!”

“That’s because you’re lazy and out of shape,” Arnbjorn snarls, quickly losing his patience with her. “Quit wasting time and get up here!”

With a heavy sigh, Lumen climbs the staircase, wincing at how heavy her legs feel. She cannot understand why so many Nords climb the mountain hoping to find serenity and enlightenment. It sounds like a sham. There’s nothing serene _or_ enlightening about freezing half to death, or hiking through snow, or dealing with dangerous wildlife. Lumen, for one, does _not_ feel enlightened or serene. She’s cold and hungry and she desperately wants a nap.

Arnbjorn sneers at her when she finally reaches the landing, and even though she’s tempted to push him down the stairs, she pushes past him instead. “Come on, let’s get this over with,” she says, stomping the snow from her boots before entering High Hrothgar. After being so cold for so long, the heat from the fires within High Hrothgar is almost overwhelming. 

Lumen sets her traveling pack down and sheds her heavy cloak before turning to face Arnbjorn. She grins at how awestruck he looks. “Are you having a Nord moment?” she asks.

Arnbjorn schools his expression. “I told you before, I made this pilgrimage with my father many times. I was always a little curious what this place looked like,” he says, then awkwardly clears his throat. “Where is everyone?”

“Meditating, most likely,” she tells him. “This place is huge, they may not have heard us come in.”

“I heard you, Dovahkiin,” comes a soft voice as Arngeir steps into the room. Despite being old and wizened, the man carries a palpable aura of power. “Who is your friend?” he asks, casting a wary eye on Arnbjorn. 

“Master Arngeir,” Lumen says, inclining her head slightly. While the man would never demand respect, it is difficult not to give it. He could Shout them both right off the mountain if he wanted to. “This is Arnbjorn, he’s my-- uh, traveling companion.”

Both men nod by way of greeting, but no words are exchanged. “A warrior,” Arngeir comments, his eyes focusing on Arnbjorn’s battleaxe before turning his attention back to Lumen. “And you are still a woman of violence, I see.”

“Uh, well--” Lumen becomes all too aware of the weight of the daggers strapped to her hips, and the sword on her back. During her previous visit, Arngeir had tried to reach out to her. He talked to her about leaving a life of violence and living as a pacifist. It’s a small wonder Lumen hadn’t died laughing at the very idea. “Sorry,” she says hastily. “And I apologize for disturbing you, but I am hoping to learn a very specific Shout and I was wondering if you might help me.”

“I will help you if I can, Dovahkiin,” Arngeir says, lifting his head in interest at the mention of a Shout. “What would you like to know?”

“Do you know a Shout that can knock a dragon out of the sky?” she asks, glancing around when she hears the other Greybeards shuffle into the main hall.

Arngeir’s face immediately hardens, looking as if he’s torn between fury and disappointment. “And where did you learn about _that_?”

“From Alduin’s Wall,” she says, the admission sounding more like a question. “At Sky Haven Temple, it’s a--”

“I know what it is,” he says briskly, cutting her off. “You’ve been consorting with the Blades.”

Lumen shares a look with Arnbjorn, who looks as confused as she is. “Is that bad?” she asks Arngeir.

“They are bloodthirsty warlords who will steer you from a path of wisdom and peace and use you as a weapon.” Arngeir closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. When he speaks again, his voice is as calm as ever. “I do not know this Shout, and I have no desire to know it.”

Lumen holds up her hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve obviously touched a nerve,” she says, hoping she doesn’t push the limits of the Greybeard’s patience. “I apologize.”

“You did not know, Dovahkiin,” he says, appearing somewhat mollified. “The Shout you seek is called Dragonrend. It was created during Alduin’s reign of terror, and it is a Shout of pure evil, an embodiment of the fear and cruelty of that time.”

Fear and cruelty is definitely more her style than peace and wisdom. Lumen struggles with herself, not wishing to seem overly eager for the power the Shout will give her. “I see,” she says, attempting to appear calm. “So, no one here knows the Shout?”

“Our leader, Paarthurnax may know it,” Arngeir tells her as he turns away. “But it is best that you never do. Now go, Dovahkiin. I cannot help you.”

Lumen opens her mouth to protest, but a rasping whisper silences her. “ _Arngeir_.” Another Greybeard steps forward, one whose name she does not know. The power of his _thu’um_ ripples through the fortress, vibrating the floor beneath their feet. “ _Rek los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul. Rek fen tinvaak Paarthurnax_.”

The power of the Greybeard’s _thu’um_ dislodges a small chunk of stone from the ceiling. It bounces off Lumen’s head and lands at her feet. She stares at the fragment, absentmindedly rubbing her scalp where it hit her. The pea-sized pebble did no damage, but the realization that the Greybeards could tear the fortress apart simply by discussing something as mundane as the weather is a disconcerting thought. She glances up at Arnbjorn, who’s watching the two Greybeards stare each other down, his brow wrinkled in concern. Clearly, he’s of the same mind as she.

Arngeir sighs. “Of course, Master Einarth. You are correct.” He turns to face Lumen, bowing slightly as he says, “Forgive me, Dovahkiin, I have been intemperate with you.”

“Easy to do,” Arnbjorn mutters, and Lumen glares at him before turning her attention back to Arngeir. “It’s all right,” she says. “It’s not as if I don’t understand why. You have a very different philosophy than the Blades.”

“Quite,” Arngeir sighs. “Paarthurnax speaks rarely and never to outsiders.” He casts a pointed look at Arnbjorn. “Being able to speak to him is a great privilege. He lives in seclusion at the peak of the mountain.”

“Right,” Lumen says, internally groaning at the thought of more hiking in the snow. “So, how do I get up there?”

“Come with me, I will teach you a Shout to open the way to Paarthurnax.”

* * *

**_“Lok Vah Koor!”_ **

The violent winds that block her path dissipate before her eyes, and Lumen gasps for breath. The Shout leaves her devoid of air and of _feeling_. Not only does it calm the storm in front of her, but within her as well, and she is reeling from the calm, and from the freedom of feeling anything at all. 

“Are you certain you want me to come with you?” Arnbjorn asks. “The Greybeard, uh-- what’s his name? _Arngeir_ \-- he’s not too happy about it. Paarthurnax won’t speak to outsiders, remember?”

“You’re not an outsider,” Lumen says firmly, and she grabs Arnbjorn by the wrist, urging him to follow. “You’re with me.”

“Just so.” He follows her, regardless of his initial reservations, and once they are out of earshot of the Greybeards he asks, “What if he refuses to talk to you because I’m with you?”

“I don’t know,” Lumen sighs. “Just hide behind a rock or something. I mean, _really_ , what kind of crazy do you have to be to live up here? This sucks!” As the winds begin to rise, so does her agitation. But both can be temporarily cleared away with the newly learned Shout. 

“That’s really weird,” Arnbjorn comments.

“What is?”

“That Shout,” he says, his jaw tensing for a moment as he mulls over his words. “To be able to calm a storm with a single breath-- How much control over the world does someone like _you_ really need?”

“Someone like me?” Lumen growls, but there is little heat there. Her mind is too busy focusing on one word. _Control_. The Shout gives her the ability to control the uncontrollable, albeit temporarily. But it soothes her much like killing does. It quiets the bloodlust, and for a brief moment the constant clawing and the constant whispers are gone. She wonders why controlling _anything_ would calm her so much, but it does.

“There’s no need to get offended,” Arnbjorn says. “You’re a killer, tidbit. You’re not a good person. I should know-- I’m not either. But I’ve seen the evil that _good_ men can do when they are given a modicum of power…”

“I’m not going to take over the world, Arnbjorn,” she says, and Arnbjorn murmurs his acceptance. The two assassins fall quiet for the rest of their journey, the silence occasionally broken when Lumen has to Shout the winds away. Each time she does, her mind is filled with vision of what could be. What else can she control with more Shouts? If there is a Shout that can bring a dragon to the ground, is there a Shout that can control one? The Greybeards would not know, and they wouldn’t appreciate her asking, but she hopes Paarthurnax is a little more open-minded about such things. She has so many questions for him.

It takes nearly two hours to reach the top of the mountain, and as exhausted as she is, Lumen has to pause to admire the view. Between the breaks in the clouds, the land of Skyrim seems to stretch on forever. Large forests and substantial farms are little more than specks of dust when seen from so high up. It’s beautiful, despite the miserably cold temperatures, and the ice wraiths.

“Hey, there’s one of those Word Wall things up here,” Arnbjorn says, drawing her attention away from the impressive view. “But I don’t see a Greybeard, or the frozen corpse of one.”

Lumen approaches the Word Wall and sighs. “There’s no writing on it. It’s just… _blank_ ,” she says, too worn out from the arduous climb to feel anger, just immense disappointment. She had hoped to learn something. To gain _something_ out of this miserable journey. But before she can allow herself to despair, a powerful gust of wind almost knocks her off balance, and a very large, very familiar, shadow falls over her.

“Time to see if that new sword of yours lives up to its name,” Arnbjorn says, readying his battleaxe while Lumen reaches for Dragonbane, but something in the way the dragon moves stops her. 

“Arnbjorn, wait!” Lumen grabs him by the arm, and for once, he doesn’t argue. 

The dragon makes no attempt to fight. No taunts, and no challenging roar. There is only the sound of the wind created by the occasional flap of his huge wings, and the gentle, vibrating boom when he lands. The dragon tilts his head curiously, examining Lumen and Arnbjorn with his giant, reptilian eyes.

“ _Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin_ ,” he says slowly. The dragon’s voice is so deep and so powerful, she can feel his every word coursing through her. “I have been expecting you.”

“You have?” Lumen asks, her voice barely above a whisper because she cannot seem to accept the fact that she’s having a conversation with a dragon. “Wait-- _you’re_ Paarthurnax?”

“ _Geh_ ,” he answers, then he says, “Yes.” His clarification gives Lumen an innate understanding of the word, like when she learns a Shout from a Word Wall or when the Greybeards teach her a Shout. Paarthurnax may not be teaching her a Shout, but he is teaching her his language.

“But--” she gasps, her mind still trying to wrap itself around the situation. This is _not_ happening. She passed out from the cold and this is a dream. Or maybe she’s hallucinating. “But you’re a dragon.”

“That I am,” he says, a rough, resonant growl behind his words. “And you are _feyfahliil_. A forest elf, but one with the blood of a _dov_. I have heard your _thu’um_ on many occasions. I have known of you for a long time.” He lifts his head, the slow, graceful movement reminding Lumen of a snake rearing back to strike. “But I do not know the _grohiik jul_ , the wolf man.”

“His name is Arnbjorn,” Lumen says, casting a quick glance at her companion before speaking again. “I-- trust him. You can trust him too.” Her voice wavers, because she’s a little stunned that she _does_ trust him. Which was not the case only a week ago when he was threatening to break her neck. But he’s had multiple opportunities to kill her since then, and he’s only helped her, never harmed. Paarthurnax blinks slowly, but he does not respond, and Lumen takes his silence as acceptance. “May I ask--”

“ _Drem_. Patience. There are formalities that must be observed at the first meeting of two of the _dov_.” The old dragon turns to the blank Word Wall and says, “Pay attention, Dovahkiin, and match my _thu’um_.” Paarthurnax then roars, and a massive gout of flame curls around the Word Wall. The roar is probably unintelligible noise to Arnbjorn, but Lumen can hear the words within. When the flames gutter out, she can see the glowing embers of _Dovahzul_ etched into the stone. Lumen moves closer, and gasps when the power and understanding flows into her and melds with her very soul. _Yol Toor Shul_. After becoming so intimately familiar with the fire Shout, she knows the word _yol_. But now with the addition of two more words; inferno and sun, the Shout will be more destructive than before.

“This is a gift, Dovahkiin,” Paarthurnax says, turning to face her. He is so close she can feel the immense heat of his breath. “Show me what you can do. You want to, do you not? I can see it in your _miin_. Your eyes. You desire power of the _dov_ so much, and now I have given you a taste. Now _briinah_ , greet me not as a mortal, but as a _dovah_!”

Lumen doesn’t understand this strange feeling welling inside of her. To call it elation would be a severe understatement. But to speak with a dragon, to be accepted by a dragon, it feels-- good. Natural. She’s finally making a connection she never knew she needed before and it feels so _right_. She focuses on the words of the Shout, their power and the knowledge that was freely given to her. The world around her falls away, and she doesn’t think about anything other than the wind whipping through her hair-- through _horns_ , over scales and beneath large, leathery wings. Her body is humming with power, both inside and out, and if she weren’t so eager to taste the power of the Words, it would be too easy to lose herself in the fantasy of being something more than she is.

**_“Yol Toor Shul!”_ **

The air in her lungs is hot, hotter than she’s ever felt. Her lips form the words, and the second her breath touches the air, flames erupt. Brighter and more powerful than ever before, bright as the sun and twice as hot. They curl around her and around Paarthurnax, and for a brief moment she’s terrified that she might to consume herself in her own flames. But they don’t hurt her. They are little more than a tickling warmth to her. The flames dissipate, and Lumen sucks in a deep breath, shivering at the contrast of how cold the mountain air is compared to the residual heat the fire Shout left behind.

“Did-- did that not hurt you?” she asks, a stupid question, perhaps. But what is the use of fire if she cannot kill with it?

“ _Nid_. No, it did not, because it is my knowledge of the flame that fuels the Shout,” the old dragon answers. He tucks his wings against his sides and ambles to the Word Wall, perching on top of it like a giant bird. “Now, Dovahkiin, I expect you have more to ask me than just that.”

“I-- right, I do.” Lumen glances over her shoulder at Arnbjorn, remembering how Paarthurnax just seemed to know that he is a werewolf. Arnbjorn is clutching his hands over his ears, but when he sees Lumen look back at him, he lowers his hands. “Are you all right?” she asks.

“Yeah, fine. My ears are _ringing_ , but I’m fine,” he says. 

“I apologize. The power of the _thu’um_ can be overwhelming for mortals,” Paarthurnax says, inclining his head to Arnbjorn.

“Did… Did the dragon just talk to me?” Arnbjorn asks, staring incredulously at Lumen.

“Yes, can’t you understand him?” she asks. 

“No, it just sounds like growling to me,” he says, looking stunned. “Except when he breathed fire, it was like thunder.”

Lumen looks back to Paarthurnax, but before she can ask why, the dragon chuckles and says, “Mortal ears. You are Dovahkiin. You have the blood of a _dovah_ running through your veins. You were created by Akatosh, as was I. Even when I am speaking your language, your mortal friend cannot understand me because my voice is too powerful for his ears.” The dragon tilts his head in consideration. “The only reason he is still standing is likely due to his _sivaas sos_. His beast blood.”

“How are you able to tell he’s a werewolf?” 

“His scent,” Paarthurnax answers simply. “Ah, though it has been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of conversation with a fellow _dov_ , I am curious as to why you are here. Tell me, _briinah_ , what brings you to my _strunmah_?”

Lumen takes a deep breath, hoping Paarthurnax does not react as poorly to her question as Arngeir did. “I need to know Dragonrend,” she tells him. “I asked Arngeir and he didn’t know it, but he thought you might.”

“You seek your weapon against Alduin,” Paarthurnax murmurs, his voice almost sad. “I will tell you what I know, but I have a question of my own. Why do you wish to learn this Shout?”

“To defeat Alduin,” she says, knowing this is a trick question of some sort. Why else would she need to learn this Shout? “I’m told he heralds the end of time, and that he’s going to destroy the world, and, by some unfortunate turn of events, I am apparently the only person who can stop him.”

“Have you not thought to let Alduin do what he is destined to do?” he asks, tilting his head curiously. “Have you not considered that this world needs to die so the next can be born?”

“I have,” she admits. “Sometimes people have to die to make way for others, I understand that quite well. And I have considered that the same is true for worlds, too. But, I like this world. At least, _now_ I do.” Lumen bites her lip, thinking about what to say. She doesn’t mind being so open with Paarthurnax, but not in front of Arnbjorn. Yet, it doesn’t feel right to mince words with the old dragon, he’d likely see right through her lies anyway. “I don’t have any noble aims. I am no hero. I just don’t want the world to end.”

“Why?”

Lumen snarls, her patience nearing its end. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me," Paarthurnax says, unfazed by her temper. "I wish to know why you have taken it upon yourself to decide the fate of this world, thus preventing the next world from being born."

"I've prevented a lot of people from being born, I'm sure," she says, a rough laugh escaping her when she considers how many lives she's taken. "And I have decided the fate of many. So what's a world?" She paces, though it is difficult to do in the snow, but she needs to do something with all the nervous energy building up inside her. "You want the truth? Well, here it is. I don't give a shit about the next world, and I used to not give a shit about this one. But now? Now I care. _I care_ because for the first time in my life I have people that matter to me. I have a _family_ , and I'll not let this world end as long as they are in it!"

"You are very passionate, _briinah_ ," Paarthurnax says.

Lumen huffs a tired laugh. "That's not usually how I am described. I am surprised you aren't telling me how selfish I am."

"No need. You admitted as much, and most _dovah_ are. I am not here to judge you for anything you have done or will do. I only wished to know your reasons," he says. "I do not know Dragonrend. It was crafted by mortals. A dragon's mind cannot fathom its concepts. I cannot teach it to you, but I do know where you might find it." Paarthurnax steps down from the edge of the World Wall and curls up against the rock, the graceful action reminding Lumen of a cat. "It was here that three heroes of old defeated Alduin. They used Dragonrend, but it was not enough. They used a _Kel_ , an Elder Scroll to banish Alduin from their time. I believe if you find the scroll and bring it here, you can open the _tiid ahraan_ , the time wound, and be sent back in time to learn the Shout."

Lumen stands there, dumbstruck, staring open-mouthed at the dragon. She's been asked to do a number of ridiculous things in her life, but this? This takes the cake. "So, let me get this straight. I have to find an Elder Scroll, I have to bring it back here, and I have to-- I have to _travel through time_ to learn this Shout?"

"It is the only way to know Dragonrend." Beyond the sonorous rumble of Paarthurnax's voice, Lumen can hear Arnbjorn exclaim, "You have to _what_?!" But she ignores him for the moment.

"Okay," she says, refusing to let the gravity of her task sink in just yet. "So where's the scroll at?"

"I do not know," Paarthurnax admits. "You are more knowledgeable of the world below than I."

"Aw, fuck," Lumen buries her head in her hands. She is beyond frustrated. As far as she or anyone else knows, the Elder Scrolls have been lost for ages. She doesn't know where to find one or even how to use it if she does. This has gone from a ridiculous situation to an impossible one, and she feels crushed under the weight of it all. She doesn't want the world to end. Not now. Not when there's so much left to do and so much left to experience. And she is so lost in her despair that she doesn't realize that she's kneeling in the snow, or that she is even crying, until a pair of strong hands are lifting her to her feet.

"Come on, tidbit," Arnbjorn says gently. "Let's go home."

* * *

Lumen had composed herself by the time they made it back to High Hrothgar. At Arnbjorn’s insistence, she agreed to spend the night there and leave for Ivarstead in the morning. Now, she sits on her bedroll in front of a brazier, staring down at the dry, salted venison and hardtack Arnbjorn is trying to convince her to eat.

“Here, I found something that might bring a smile to your face.” He plops a dusty bottle of wine down in front of her. “No idea how old it is, but I found it in the pantry. Arngeir said the Greybeards don’t often imbibe alcohol, and you are welcome to have it.”

"Thanks," she says, her voice weak. "Um, please don't tell anyone I cried."

Arnbjorn settles down on his own bedroll, which is placed near hers so they can share the warmth of the fire. "It'll be our little secret," he says. "But, for what it's worth, there's no shame in it."

"It's embarrassing," she says firmly, grunting a little when she yanks the cork from the bottle. "It's worse because it happened in front of Paarthurnax. Gods, I never cry. _Never_. I haven't even come close to it since--" she pauses, remembering the sorrow and heartache she felt when Falkreath was under attack. But her pain then was nothing compared to Arnbjorn's. "Nevermind," she mutters, taking a swig of the wine and wincing at the strong flavor.

"It happens sometimes," he says. "I only heard half of the conversation, but from what I gathered, you're supposed to find a long-lost Elder Scroll and travel through time, _and_ somehow save the world--"

"Not helping," Lumen grumbles.

"What I'm getting at, is that it's a lot to take in," Arnbjorn says, his voice firm and just on the edge of irritation. "What's really stupid is that you're moping more about crying than you are about anything else. So, you broke down. Emotions happen. Shit happens. Just own it and move on."

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek. Emotions happen, yes. But not to her. At least, that's how it used to be. But everything is changing. She isn't who she thought she was. She isn't even the same person she was all those months ago when she met Cicero on the road, and she thought him nothing more than an eccentric traveler. "I never expected you to provide so much emotional counsel," Lumen says, hoping to lighten the mood.

"I never thought I would have to." He looks at her and purses his lips in thought. "But I never know what to expect with you."

"Is that a bad thing or a good thing?" she asks, wondering where he's going with this.

"I don't know." Arnbjorn shrugs and looks away, running his hand through his hair. "Two weeks ago, if someone would've told me that I'd be here, in High Hrothgar, with _you_ , I wouldn't have believed them. When you came to the grotto, I was fully prepared to kill you. I wanted to. Just-- after all that happened, I was so angry. I blamed you for everything."

Lumen pushes the cork back into the wine bottle. She has the distinct feeling that she should remain sober for this conversation. Especially if Arnbjorn is regretting his decision to let her live. "You had cause," she says softly.

"What happened at Falkreath was not your fault. I blamed you initially, but I've had time to think about it, and I'm no idiot. I can lie to myself for a while, but eventually I grow tired of my own bullshit." Arnbjorn sighs, scooting away from the heat of the brazier. "Astrid's death was not your fault. I blamed you then, but not now."

The words hang in the air, as does everything he's implying. Lumen ended Astrid's life, but she was not the cause of the woman's death. Astrid's death was her own doing. Still, Lumen doesn't know what to say to that. "Why are you telling me this?" she asks.

"Because I want to, and because I learned a lot about you today. What you said to Paarthurnax, about family, it-- I don't know--" he pauses, his brows knitting together. "That's something I always liked about the Dark Brotherhood. They weren't the family I was born into, but they were the family I chose. I found acceptance there. But after seeing the Sanctuary in flames, watching my brothers and sisters _die_ , and knowing that it was _my wife_ who betrayed us... I was completely lost when you found me in that grotto." He chuffs a humorless laugh to ease the tension in the room. "If you are truly willing to kill Alduin and save the world just so the Dark Brotherhood can continue its existence, then I want to help in any way that I can."

"Damn," she says breathlessly, still completely stunned at what Arnbjorn is telling her. "I-- I appreciate the sentiment, Arnbjorn but how in the world am I supposed to find an Elder Scroll so I can learn Dragonrend? It just seems _impossible_.”

"We'll figure it out," Arnbjorn says, like finding an Elder Scroll and killing a god is no big deal. "We'll go home and you'll tell everyone what you learned, and then you'll turn to your family for guidance. You're overcomplicating this, tidbit. Just treat it like a contract, and take it step-by-step."

“I didn’t think of it like that,” she admits. “But it _is_ like a contract. I have to kill someone, plain and simple. I’m not usually killing world-eating dragons, though.”

“We all have that contract that challenges us,” Arnbjorn says. “But considering dragons are running rampant all over Skyrim, maybe you should kill a few for practice.”

“I, uh-- I don’t know,” she says, internally groaning at the thought of having to contend with a dragon. “That’s not really my _thing_.”

Arnbjorn laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling from his wide smile. “The Dragonborn, the legendary dragon-slayer, refuses to actually do any slaying because it’s just _not her thing_ ,” he says, passing a hand over his face as he laughs even harder. “Maybe you can just invite Alduin to tea and politely ask him to stop all this world-eating business.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lumen says, but her smile takes the bite out of her words. “It’s bad enough that I have Cicero teasing me all the time, I don’t need you doing it too.” It’s difficult not to laugh as well, and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen Arnbjorn smile so wide or laugh so hard. She can only assume his good mood is caused from some sort of sleep deprived delirium. As is hers. Once their laughter fades, Lumen curls up on her bedroll, her stomach painfully empty and her mind oddly clear and sober. But her exhaustion is a more pressing matter than food or drink, and she promises herself that when they arrive in Ivarstead she will eat a decent meal and get properly soused before they make their journey home.

* * *

The journey down the mountain is just as cold and miserable as the journey up, but the time passes more pleasantly since Lumen and Arnbjorn are able to converse rather than bicker the entire time. Once they arrive at the Vilemyr Inn, Arnbjorn pays for their rooms while Lumen orders their meal. The stew is nothing more than a typical Nord staple of beef and potatoes, but after eating travel rations for days, Lumen thinks it’s the most delicious thing she’s ever had. She pays more attention to her dinner and her bottle of Black-Briar mead than to the goings on around the inn, only partially listening to the conversation between Lynly Star-Sung and Arnbjorn. Well-- no, it’s not a conversation. It’s unabashed flirting. But Lumen won’t begrudge Arnbjorn that. The bard is a pretty little thing, and Lumen can hardly blame him for being interested, or for needing a rebound.

Lumen pushes away from the table when she finishes her meal, warm and happy and a little fuzzy from the mead, she bids Arnbjorn and Lynly goodnight and wanders off to her room. She sighs when she curls up in the comfortable bed, wrapping herself in furs as she settles down, the room only spinning slightly. The sounds of the inn fade into nothing as sleep closes in on her. People talking, laughing, chairs scraping and the occasional clink of glass are just a distant murmur. She is on the verge of sleep. Blissful, warm, hopefully ten hours of sleep, until she’s startled by a knock on the wall. She rubs her eyes, trying to decide if the sound was real or just in her head, when she hears it again. And again.

“Oh gods,” she groans. Apparently Lynly and Arnbjorn had hit it off rather well. Lumen rolls on her stomach, pulling her pillow over her head in an attempt to block out the sound of bedposts knocking against the wall, and she’s almost successful until Lynly starts to moan. By Sithis, the bard even harmonizes when she comes, and if Lumen weren’t so damn tired she’d be impressed.

She squeezes her eyes shut, as if that simple action would actually block out the noise. But Lynly’s melodious moans of pleasure invade her ears, and it’s made worse when Arnbjorn’s voice is added to the din. The sound of his nearing climax invokes a memory from many months ago. An awkward memory of an ill-fated tryst. A warm, coil of pleasure curls within her stomach at the thought of the power she briefly had over him, the _control_. But the guilt that soon follows douses that particular flame. _“No! Don’t think about that! Not now!”_ Instead, she forces herself to think of Cicero, even though thoughts of him pain her because she misses him so much. Lumen has had many lovers, but she supposes Cicero is her first real lover. She doesn’t know what drew her to him, or what still pulls her in. Maybe it was the result of Astrid’s revulsion, or Arnbjorn’s disdain. But, from the moment she first laid eyes on him, Lumen had been seized by an unquenchable curiosity concerning the Dark Brotherhood’s resident madman. It hadn’t taken her long to succumb to his charms, either. 

A frustrated groan escapes her. Even though the ruckus in the next room has quieted, she doubts she will be able to fall asleep. Sleep is almost impossible; the ravenous clawing inside her head, and the too-loud thumping of her hollow heart are made worse by the ache that lingers between her legs. No thanks to a certain jester, and no thanks to Arnbjorn.

Her thoughts wander back to the first time she met Cicero. But this time, they move past him and further up the hill to the Loreius farm. More specifically, to Curwe. That beautiful Altmer with her bright green eyes, her gentle manner and her soft smile. _Curwe_ , with long, lovely hair. Hair that Lumen could wrap around her hand to pull her head back, exposing the delicate veins beneath the flesh of her neck. It would be such a lovely sight; fresh tears upon her cheeks, her graceful collar bones pressing against flesh, her chest rising rapidly with each panicked breath, her viridian eyes wide and fearful as she tries to appeal to Lumen. Oh, how she would _beg_ \--

“Stop,” she gasps. There’s no time for this. Not now. But it’s been _so long_ and if she can’t take care of one need then she could always take care of the _other_. But what she wants is so far away. The inn is finally quiet and Lumen needs to sleep. She wants to sleep. But her heart is pounding against her ribs, her fingernails digging into her palms so hard she knows she’s drawing blood, and her body needing. Craving. _Aching_.

 _“Soon,”_ she promises herself, although she’s not certain on what the promise entails. The only certainty is that it helps to quiet her mind. _“Very, very soon…”_

With her need quieted with a vague promise, Lumen takes a deep breath and tries to relax. After many minutes of controlled breathing, the welcoming warmth of sleep flows over her once more--

\-- that is, until, the familiar sound of bedposts knocking against the wall starts up all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh. I am so excited about this chapter because it’s been a long time coming! Lumen has come such a long way, hasn’t she? I don’t know. Maybe I am feeling a little emotional right now. XD My baby is growing up! Anyway, this chapter took a while to write because there was a lot I needed to accomplish. Arnbjorn is finally healing, and Lumen has found a real reason to protect the world. (If only so that she can keep killing and earning gold for it. Hey. She’s a simple creature.) I’m sure you all can guess what happens in the next chapter. Lulu’s been behaving for a long time. Time to rectify that...
> 
> For translation help, I used the translator at thuum.org. :)
> 
> Rek los Dovahkiin, Strundu'ul. Rek fen tinvaak Paarthurnax. - She is Dragonborn, Stormcrown. She will speak to Paarthurnax  
> Drem yol lok - Greetings (Literally “peace fire sky”)  
> Geh - Yes  
> Feyfahliil - Wood Elf (Literally “forest elf”)  
> Grohiik jul - Wolf Man  
> Dovahzul - Dragon Language  
> Miin - Eyes  
> Briinah - Sister  
> Dovah - Dragon  
> Nid - No  
> Sivaas Sos - Beast Blood  
> Strunmah - Mountain  
> Kel - Elder Scroll  
> Tid Ahraan - Time Wound


	24. Reunited

“Sleep well, tidbit?”

Lumen shoulders her knapsack with a huff. “Only when _you_ did,” she says. Her voice is tinged with annoyance, but the slight hint of a smile takes the bite out of her words. “Can that poor thing even walk after all that?”

Arnbjorn laughs, feeling only slightly ashamed for keeping Lumen awake. “She’ll be all right,” he says, unable to ignore that small swelling of male pride when he remembers how satisfied Lynly was when he told her goodbye before leaving the inn. A large smile on her face, her cheeks blushing pink, and an honest invitation to come back and see her anytime.

“Hmph.” Is Lumen’s response to that, and she glances at him briefly before climbing atop the horse Madanach had given them. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that a bard would be so vocal in bed.”

“Sorry,” he says, not feeling the least bit contrite. Rather, he’s amused, and maybe a little curious. Is it his imagination or is that jealousy in her voice? And because of what? Is she jealous of the bard for grabbing his attention, or is she jealous of him for having slept more soundly than she did? He’d love to ask, but he knows his question would likely be met with lies. Thier strained relationship has come far in the last few days, and he’s figured her out well enough to know that Lumen will always be governed by her pride.

They’re both quiet as they walk through the cool dawn air, leaving the town of Ivarstead behind and traveling deep into the rufescent forests of The Rift. Both he and Lumen are on edge when they enter the forest, both recalling the bandits that attacked them last time. But there are none. Only a few stray, hungry wolves, and a patrol of Imperial soldiers who were content to ignore the Bosmer riding a horse and the Nord walking along beside her.

Time passes by quickly, even though Lumen is so quiet and aloof compared to how she was when they left High Hrothgar. Arnbjorn almost misses her attempts at making idle talk. He would try, but he was never good at talking just to talk. Instead, he’s wondering how life in Dawnstar will be, and he’s filled with a nervous excitement whenever he thinks of it. It will be different, and that both worries and thrills him. At least Babette and Nazir will offer some semblance of familiarity, as will Lumen and Cicero, but in a different way. If nothing else, Arnbjorn will have the solace of his forge to escape to. If he is to live in close quarters with Cicero again, he’s certain he’ll need escape quite often.

A cool breeze brings the acrid scent of charred flesh to the once pleasant smelling forest. The earthy scent of dry leaves and dirt now replaced with the stench of death. "Ugh, what is that smell?" Lumen wrinkles her nose and looks to Arnbjorn. "You can smell that, right? Please tell me it's not just me."

"Keep your voice down," Arnbjorn says, his eyes focused on the black smoke now filling the air. "There's something just over the hill."

As the two assassins climb the hill, a horrific scene unfolds before them. Bodies of soldiers and civilians are scattered across the ground. Nearby a small house is burning to the ground, and next to the house, a dragon. The soldiers had given the dragon a good fight, and the beast is lying prostrate on the ground, groaning in pain. It's still alive, but just barely.

Lumen dismounts the horse and stalks toward the dragon, unsheathing Dragonbane as she carefully steps over the charred corpses. The dragon growls at her-- or maybe he's speaking. It's the same strange resonating sound that Paarthurnax made during his conversation with her. Arnbjorn has no way of knowing what the dragon says to her, but judging by the sneer on Lumen’s face, it’s nothing polite. In a flash, she drives her sword between the dragon's eyes. It makes a strange gasping sound before its body goes limp, and then turns painfully _bright_ as a opalescent, white light flows from its corpse and into Lumen. It's a bizarre sight. Intense flames consume the corpse of the dragon, leaving only bones behind, and then there is Lumen. Her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted as the dragon's soul finds a new home in her. He's seen this once before, just before he kidnapped her and took her to the abandoned shack for her initiation.

Arnbjorn weaves through the carnage, stopping when he reaches Lumen's side. "Well that was easy," he says for lack of anything better to say. "You barely had to lift a finger."

"It wouldn't have been that easy if we arrived five minutes later than we did," Lumen says, tugging Dragonbane from the skull with a grunt.

"Don't know if you noticed, but that dragon wasn't doing so well."

"It was-- _waking up_ , for lack of a better term." She taps a long indentation in the dragon's skull, right next to where Dragonbane had entered moments before. "That's the old kill wound, healed. The guards _did_ kill him, but he was coming back. Dragons are immortal, remember? The only way to truly kill a dragon is to take its soul."

"So, what does the soul do once you have it?" he asks. “Does it put up a fight as well?”

Lumen shrugs. "Some come quietly. Some don't."

There is something _off_ about her tone, and Arnbjorn watches her closely when he asks, "And this one?"

"He's--" she pauses for a breath. "Uh, this one isn't so quiet."

"Are you going to be okay?" Arnbjorn turns so that he's facing her, not quite sure what to do if she's _not_ okay. What does one do with a psychotic Bosmer high on dragon souls, anyway?

"I'll be fine," she says, then turns on her heel and strides back to the path, grabbing the horse by the reigns. "I'm feeling-- _antsy_. I think I am going to walk for a while. Would you like to take the horse?"

"No thanks," he says, joining her on the road. "I'm not really a fan of riding horses. It's uncomfortable, and if I am idle for too long I tend to become, as you put it, antsy."

Lumen glances at him as she leads the horse along the well-traveled path. "You don't really seem like an anxious person."

"I'm not," he says, falling into step beside her. "It's not a mental thing, it's more physical. It's because of the beast blood. If I am still for too long I become restless and I need to move. Werewolves don't rest easy, and sleep can be difficult to achieve. It's why I started smithing in the first place. Doing hours of physical labor helps so I'm less fidgety."

"Were you born that way?" she asks, not bothering to look back at him as she speaks. "Like, did your werewolf mother give birth to a little were-litter?"

"No," he says, laughing at the question. "My mother wasn't a werewolf."

"So how did it happen?" she presses.

"Er, well--" he stammers. He's no longer a Companion, but he doesn't feel comfortable divulging their deepest, darkest secrets either. "My father and I went through a ritual many, many years ago. I was sixteen."

"So your father is a werewolf? Huh." She is quiet for a few seconds, and Arnbjorn wonders if she's just lost in thought until he notices the pained expression on her face. Lumen rubs her eyes and schools her expression into something more neutral, but her voice is a bit strained when she asks, "Is he a Companion as well?"

Arnbjorn casts a wary glance her way, a bit worried about the Listener's mental well-being. "Yes," he says slowly. "I assume he still is. I don't know. We haven't spoken in ten years, at least. I don't even know if he's still alive. But if he is, he's still a Companion. He'd never leave."

"I guess he didn't take it well when you left?"

"No," Arnbjorn says gruffly, not wanting to revisit that particular memory. "No he did not." At Lumen's expectant look, he sighs and continues, "The Companions was all I ever knew. I grew up in Jorrvaskr, but I never felt like I belonged there. I just had a different set of ideals, and the Dark Brotherhood was a better fit. So, to say that tensions between my father and I were high by the time I finally left would be a severe understatement."

"So--" Lumen pauses, tilting her head. "Who is your father, then? I met some Companions when I was looking for you in Whiterun. I had thought-- maybe you'd go back to them. "

Arnbjorn stumbles to a stop, stunned, and a little angry. "You went to Jorrvaskr and asked about _me_? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

Lumen faces him, and the elf has the audacity to look at him like _he's_ the crazy one. "It seemed like a good place to start looking," she says. "And it was hardly dangerous. I talked to a pair of twins, and it was the _nice_ twin who suggested I look for you in Falkreath. They heard a rumor that some werewolf ate a kid-- did _you_ eat a kid?"

"What? No! I didn't eat a-- Oh, by Sithis, they assumed I was the one who did that?" Arnbjorn can feel a headache coming on, and he is torn between strangling Lumen for being so careless, or being amazed that she went through so much trouble to actually find him.

"Well, they didn't have a favorable opinion of you in the first place. I doubt that assumption could've made it any worse."

"Great."

"So? Are you going to answer my question? Who is your father? I'm curious."

"What does it matter?" Arnbjorn growls. Not only is he irritated the elf would do something stupid like mentioning _his name_ to other Companions, but his irritation is made worse by the thought that Farkas and Vilkas assume he's the one responsible for that child's death. Arnbjorn isn’t a good man by any means, but he wouldn’t kill a child.

"I'm just trying to get to know you better," she snaps, her voice tinged with more than just anger, a grim reminder that the crazy Bosmer is on edge from absorbing a dragon's soul.

"Well, _don't_ ," Arnbjorn snaps back.

The conversation dies out after that, and a tense silence falls over the two assassins as they travel through the countryside. It is early afternoon when they enter the Pale. The flat fields are dotted with small farms, and off in the distance Arnbjorn catches a glimpse of the city of Whiterun. He sighs, the anger that had waned comes back in full force. He doesn't like being reminded of his life as a Companion, or of the family he was so glad to leave behind. They weren't bad people, they just weren't _his_ people. Although sometimes he does wonder how his father is doing, and he is tempted to check in on the old man, but Arnbjorn doubts his father would appreciate it if he showed up on his doorstep.

“Arnbjorn.” The sound of his name distracts him from his brooding, and the dull monotone of Lumen’s voice shakes him. There’s no underlying sarcasm, no sardonic remark on the tip of her barbed tongue. There’s simply _nothing_ there. “Take the horse and go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

"What? Why?" he asks, wondering if she's angry with him for snapping at her. But she doesn't seem angry-- she's more focused than anything. He follows her line of sight to a small farmhouse on a hill.

“There’s something I need to do.” Her eyes never leave the small farmhouse, her expression dark and longing. He’s seen that look before, and he understands that possessive hunger. One doesn’t make their bed among killers-for-hire without learning to recognize the different types. Some kill for money, for power, to fulfill some dark fantasy, some strange fetish, and then there are some who just need _it_. They just need the kill.

"I don't know what you're planning, but it's the middle of the day. There's a reason assassins work at night," Arnbjorn says, watching Lumen carefully. "I'm sure we'll run into a bandit or two. They're always fun to kill, right?"

"No." Lumen stares at the farmhouse like a woman possessed, gripped in the throes of her violent need. "This one. _Her_. I need it to be her."

"It's too risky, tidbit. You don't know the guard patrol, and you don't know who might come to do business. If you haven't noticed, _it's a farm_. Farms tend to be busy," Arnbjorn says, though he doubts any logic will get through to her at this point. For the first time ever, he finds himself missing Cicero. The clown is probably better equipped to deal with Lumen when she gets like this. "Just wait. Do this later."

"You don't understand," she gasps, her voice trembling. "I can't wait. I can't. I've waited so long for this-- for her-- and I can't do it anymore."

He understands. He really does. He can put his weapon down for a few days, but then the days bleed into weeks and his hands begin to itch. He becomes irritable, and the world becomes bland because he needs that rush. To kill for the simple pleasure of watching blood flow. But as much as he understands, he can't let her do this. He cannot let the Listener take such a huge risk. Not only could she endanger herself, but the Dark Brotherhood as well. He will not let that happen again.

"I understand that you're out of control, tidbit." His voice is firm but calm, and he steps in front of her, blocking her view of the farmhouse. "You need to wait."

"I can't!" she wails.

"You _will_ ," he snarls, grabbing her and throwing her over his shoulder. Probably not the most respectful way to deal with the Listener, but it is the easiest. He starts walking down the road with a flailing elf tossed over his shoulder, and a very confused Forsworn horse trotting along behind them.

"Put me down!" she growls, struggling against his firm grip. "Now!"

"I'll put you down when you calm down," he says, nearly dropping her when she tries to kick him. "Dammit-- I'm not going to let you risk your life, my life, or the Brotherhood itself because you can't control yourself!"

"I'm the damn Listener! I _order_ you to put me down!"

Arnbjorn laughs at that. "Yeah? Well I'm electing to ignore that particular order. You aren't thinking clearly, and I have some serious doubts about your ability to make decisions right now. So, _no_ , Listener. I will not put you down." Lumen struggles less after hearing that, but she continues to shout abuse at him. It could be worse, he supposes. She could be Shouting fire.

* * *

An hour passes, as do a few bemused travelers. But Lumen has fallen silent, and her need is starting to wane. It helps that the dragon's soul is starting to accept its fate and grow quiet. She's embarrassed that she so easily lost control, and in front of Arnbjorn, no less. But the dragon had been so angry when it died, all that seething, destructive anger had bled into her.

"You can put me down anytime you want," she says, shifting in his grip. Being tossed over someone's shoulder like an old sack of potatoes is not the most comfortable way to travel. "I feel better."

He stops, and after a moment's pause, he sets her down. "Good," he says, rubbing his shoulder. "You were getting pretty heavy." Though he is trying to lighten the mood with a joke, the look in his eyes is severe. He's watching her, and he won't stop until they arrive at the Sanctuary.

"Yeah, well, your shoulder isn't exactly soft." Lumen straightens her armor and glances at the graying sky. A few stray snowflakes are swirling in the air, a sure sign that they are nearing Dawnstar. With a sigh, Lumen begins to walk, eager to be home.

"So," Arnbjorn begins, almost hesitantly. "That Altmer at the farm--"

Lumen groans. "Leave it alone."

"I'm not going to. You were losing your mind back there, and I want to know why." There is no sound except for that of their boots against the road, and the gentle clopping of the horse's hooves. "Was it because of the dragon soul?"

"Partially," she says, not wishing to elaborate.

"Okay," Arnbjorn says, not sounding entirely convinced. "So what did the Altmer do to you?"

"Nothing."

"Tidbit--"

Lumen throws a glare at him before turning back to watch the road ahead. "She didn't do anything to me. She's nothing to me. Nothing more than-- than a--" she sighs, frustrated with herself. She doesn't know how to explain her need, only that it exists. "She's just something to destroy.”

“And you can’t destroy a bandit?” he asks, watching her from the corner of his eye. “You won’t get arrested for that if a guard catches you.”

“It’s not the same,” she admits.

“Why not?”

“Stop prying,” she says, an unreasonable anger welling up inside her. “If I’m not allowed to get to know you better, then you’re not allowed to know me.”

“Oh, that’s mature,” he says, his voice dripping with irritation. But after a few moments of silence Arnbjorn heaves a defeated sigh and says, “Tell you what, tidbit. We’ll trade. You tell me something and I’ll tell you something.”

Lumen grumbles a few choice insults under her breath. Damn inquisitive wolf. Though she does suppose it’s fair considering all the questions she asked him earlier. “I just prefer to kill Altmer. It-- started out years ago as a thought. Then the thought became an obsession. Obsession became action, and action became habit.”

“Then habit became destiny,” Arnbjorn says.

“What do you mean?” she asks, watching him curiously.

“You told me you fled Cyrodiil because you made a Thalmor Justiciar angry-- I’m assuming that has something to do with your habit.” Arnbjorn pauses to take a drink from his waterskin before offering it to Lumen. “Your habit brought you _here_ , Dragon-Listener.”

“That is true,” she admits, feeling a bit rattled at Arnbjorn’s use of the Hagraven’s nickname for her. If she stayed in Cyrodiil, she’d probably be dead. She certainly wouldn’t be the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, or the Dragonborn of legend. “I may have taken a knife to his face.”

“Nice, may I ask why?”

“You may ask, but I won’t answer. That story is-- well, I’ve never told it.” She clenches her jaw, trying to ward off the memory of that fateful night. “I’m not ready to tell it, and I am not sure if I will ever be.”

“All right,” Arnbjorn says. The two travel in silence once again, though some of the tension from earlier has thankfully abated.

“Well? It’s your turn. It was your idea to trade stories,” Lumen says. “I admit, talking does make the time pass more quickly.”

Arnbjorn is quiet for a moment, clearly mulling something over. “You wanted to know who my father is,” he says slowly.

“It’s obviously a sore subject,” she says, wishing to offer him the same respect he offered her. “You don’t have to--”

“His name is Kodlak Whitemane,” he tells her. His voice is stiff, almost as if the name is painful to say. “He’s the Harbinger of the Companions. The Companions like to claim they have no leader, but they do, and that’s what the Harbinger does.”

“Guess the apple fell pretty far from the tree, didn't it?" Lumen breathes a laugh. An assassin with such a do-gooder for a father is an amusing thought. "So, that would make you Arnbjorn Whitemane? Oh, that’s funny! You Nords have the most _adorable_ names."

"It’s _not_ adorable," he grumbles. “And it’s not funny. It’s just a name.”

“I guess the white hair is a family trait, then?” she asks, her lips twisting into an amused grin when her gaze slides to his _white mane_. “I just thought you were old.”

Arnbjorn snorts. "Thanks, tidbit."

* * *

A wave of relief washes over Lumen when she catches sight of the Dawnstar Sanctuary’s black door. She can barely keep her voice from trembling when she says the passphrase and pushes the door open. The scents of Nightshade and Sandalwood greet the two assassins as they walk down the small staircase, and enter the Sanctuary's foyer. Lumen inhales deeply, breathing in the sweet smell of _home_. The fate of the world is in her hands; and the weight of the world is on her shoulders, but for the first time in weeks she finally feels at peace. Here, in this brief moment, she is not the Dovahkiin. She is the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, and nothing more.

"We're home!" she announces, her voice echoing off the sanctuary’s mossy, stone walls.

Babette is the first to greet them. "Welcome home, Lumen," she says as she steps out of the small garden she's been cultivating, her dress slightly muddy from kneeling in the dirt and planting seeds. When she looks up from dusting off her skirt, she actually gasps in surprise. "Arnbjorn! You came back!" She runs over to him and throws her arms around his waist. "I can't believe it!"

Arnbjorn ruffles her hair. "What? You thought I'd stand idly by and let you take all the fun contracts? I think not," he says, and Lumen is reminded of the few times at Falkreath Sanctuary where she'd overheard the vampire and werewolf exchanging stories. She always suspected the two had developed easy camaraderie long ago. Maybe they bonded so well because they are not quite human.

Nazir joins them in the foyer, clapping Arnbjorn on the shoulder. "It's good to have you back, brother," he says, a genuine smile gracing his lips.

Lumen steps away from the group, preferring to let the reunited siblings have their space. She spots Cicero standing near the alchemy table with a young Nord she’s never seen before. A new recruit, no doubt, and while she should greet the young man properly, all she can focus on is Cicero. She strides toward him and sweeps him into a crushing hug. "I missed you," she whispers in his ear.

"Really?" he asks, his arms tightening around her. "Cicero missed you too, sweet Lumen."

"He's been worried sick," the young Nord interjects. "It was so bad that I was starting to miss you, and I've never even met you!"

Lumen untangles herself from Cicero's arms. "Really?" she asks, her gaze flicking to a very annoyed Cicero. Maybe it's just her imagination, but the Keeper looks a little embarrassed. Clearly he'd not wanted her to know how worried he had been. Resisting the urge to tease him is going to be almost impossible. "So who are you, then?"

"My name is Luka," he says, giddy with excitement. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Listener-- Um, I'm not sure what to call you. Ma'am? Mistress?"

"Just call me Lumen," she says, laughing. "Welcome to the family, Luka."

"Sweet Lumen did tell Cicero to find recruits, and he did!" Cicero smiles broadly, clearly pleased with himself. "Well-- Cicero only managed to track down one recruit, but dearest Babette has two potential recruits she wants you to meet when you have the time."

"So, er-- Miss Lumen, is it true? Do you really talk to _her_?" Luka asks, motioning toward the Night Mother's shrine.

Lumen glances at the shrine. She had hoped Mother would say _something_ upon her arrival, but perhaps it's foolish of her to hope for a pat on the head just for doing Mother's bidding. "Well, I Listen more than I talk," she tells him. "What Mother has to say is more important than what I've got to say."

"Fascinating," Luka breathes, his eyes focused on Lumen's ears. "Utterly fascinating! I wonder how that works, exactly. Do you hear her through your ears or is it all in your head?"

"Uh, well," Lumen stammers, a little surprised by all the questions. "It's like an inner voice, I guess. I don't hear her physically."

"Still, though-- could I perhaps examine your ears? Just out of curiosity, of course. Or maybe I could watch the next time you commune with the Night Mother?" Luka asks, his voice breathy and excited.

While his curiosity is somewhat endearing, it's also a little off-putting. "Um-- I don't know," Lumen says, casting a wary glance at Cicero. "I suppose you can observe the next time Mother speaks to me, but I'd prefer it if you didn't touch my ears."

"Oh, right! How foolish of me," Luka says, fluttering his hands nervously. "I forgot! That's an erogenous zone for you elves, isn't it? I apologize, I did not meant to imply anything inappropriate. I'm just so curious about you! Cicero has told me that you're the Listener _and_ the Dragonborn. Ha! I can just imagine the reaction most Nords have to you. I, for one, think it's wonderful that the Dragonborn is an elf! It's _funny_."

"I-- uh, yeah," Lumen stammers, and then steps away from Cicero and Luka. She has no idea how to react to the young man's rambling. Instead, she clears her throat to get everyone's attention so she can address the group at large. "Come on, I may as well catch everyone up on what I learned from the Greybeards."

Cicero loops his arm with hers, walking with her down the stairs and into the communal area. "Did sweet Lumen learn her dragon-grounding Shout?" he asks.

Lumen sighs. "No," she says wearily. "I did not. The Greybeards don't know it, and neither does their leader." She flops into a chair, dropping her knapsack on the ground beside her. It feels so wonderful to finally be off her feet she could cry in relief.

"Cicero thought the Greybeards knew every Shout!" he says, sounding as indignant as ever. “What good are they if they do not know them all?”

"Well, they don't know this particular Shout," Lumen says, watching as the rest of their dysfunctional, little family files in, each taking a seat around the large dining table. A large, wrought iron chandelier hangs above them, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. It shines its light down on the large, oak table that dominates the communal room, and despite having two extra occupants, the table still feels empty. "If I want to learn this Shout, I have to find an Elder Scroll, and that's only the beginning."

"Many of the scrolls used to be at the White-Gold Tower, but they vanished the same year the White-Gold Concordat was signed," Babette says. "I wonder if the Aldmeri Dominion had something to do with that."

"Wonderful," Lumen grumbles. "Yet another thing the Thalmor completely fucked up. Have any turned up since then?"

Babette folds her hands on the table, her fingers drumming against the tabletop. "Not that I know of, but I have never had a particular interest in the scrolls. So it's possible that they have, and I just haven't heard about it."

"Aren't they kind of dangerous?" Nazir asks, his fingers idly grazing along his knotted beard. "I hear that people can go blind just by reading them."

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Lumen says, a little uncertain. She didn't know looking at the scroll could possibly cause blindness! How is she supposed to learn Shouts or defeat Alduin if she cannot even see? "I don't even know where to start looking for the damn thing."

"Um, if I may?" Luka's meek voice draws everyone's attention, and he seems to shrink a bit when all eyes are on him. "I'd recommend starting your search at the College of Winterhold. They have a rather impressive library there, and the librarian is quite knowledgeable. He may be able to help."

"The Mage's College? That's-- that's actually a really good idea!" Lumen says, and Luka smiles widely in response. Beside him, Arnbjorn awards Lumen a tiny grin, a grin that says _'I told you so'_. It was Arnbjorn who suggested she seek guidance from her family, and she is not disappointed. "I've never been there before, and I am no mage. They probably won't take me seriously." Lumen taps her chin in thought. "Will you go with me, Luka?"

Luka's eyes grow wide, and he laughs nervously. "I would love to, Miss Lumen. But I was expelled. Rather forcibly, might I add, and they would not speak to you if they saw you with me."

“What did you do?” Lumen asks.

“The arch-mage frowns upon necromancy and murder,” Luka says, folding his arms. Judging by the scowl on his face, he's still sore about being kicked out of the college. “Yet he is content to allow a Thalmor advisor walk the college grounds!”

“Damn it,” Lumen groans, hiding her face in her hands. She is not looking forward to having to contend with yet another Thalmor, and she can’t kill this one. Not while she’s on _Dragonborn business_ , anyway. “The Thalmor are absolutely everywhere!”

“The Thalmor are spreading across Skyrim faster than a Dibellan disease in a brothel,” Cicero says, giggling when the others wrinkle their noses in disgust at the colorful term. “It’s true!”

“You would know,” Arnbjorn grumbles.

“So what are you supposed to do with an Elder Scroll, anyway?” Babette asks, her brows raised in curiosity despite her earlier admission that the scrolls held little interest for her.

“Oh, nothing much,” Lumen begins, trying to keep her tone light because the reality of her situation is too much to handle. “I have to take it to the peak of the Throat of The World, read it where a rip in time exists, and then travel through time to learn the Shout.”

“That sounds easy enough.” Babette nods, and Lumen can’t tell if she’s joking or not.

“How exciting,” Luka whispers.

“What?” Cicero snaps, standing up from his chair so quickly it topples backwards. “The Listener is _not_ traveling through time! It is entirely too dangerous! What if you don’t come back?”

“I do a lot of dangerous things, Cicero.” Lumen does agree with him, but she doesn’t think she has much of a choice in this matter. “I’m sure it’ll all work out,” she says, sounding rather unconvinced.

“Cicero forbids it!”

Arnbjorn pushes away from the table, annoyance etched across his features. “I was led to believe there’s a forge here.”  


“I’ll show you where it is.” Nazir stands and motions for Arnbjorn to follow him, both men eager to leave the Listener and the Keeper to their shouting. “I still say a torture room would have been more fun, but the Listener insisted we use the extra space for a forge.”

Lumen pays them little mind when they leave, focusing her irritation on Cicero. “You can’t forbid this! Now drop the subject.”

“But--”

“But, nothing!” Lumen snarls. “ _Drop. It._ ”

“Fine. Cicero will leave you be,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her. “For now.”

“Thank you,” she says, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “Why don’t you show me what all has been done around the Sanctuary? The place looks so much better from when I last saw it.”

"All right,” he says, the manic cheer returning to his voice. “Come with Cicero, sweet Lumen." The jester grabs her knapsack and slings it over his shoulder. "Cicero has something he has been wanting to show you!" he says, offering her a hand to help her to her feet. He practically drags her through the twisting corridors of the Sanctuary, and Lumen marvels at how much work has been done in her absence. The fallen stones, planks of wood, and numerous cobwebs that once blocked the passageways have been cleared away. The walls repaired and lined with sconces, and the occasional tapestry. There is even a table in the hallway just outside of the room Cicero is leading her to, there is a silver bowl full of flowers and a human skull resting beside it. It's not often that furniture and flowers are used for decoration in Skyrim. Everything has a practical use, but this is highly impractical, and only there to look pretty. Cicero's idea, no doubt.

Cicero opens the door and leads her into an enormous bedroom, and Lumen gapes at the sight. A large, comfortable looking bed sits on a pedestal at the far end of the room. There are bookshelves lined with books, a table, a small fireplace, and to Lumen's immense pleasure, a bathtub. A _real_ bathtub, made of oak and copper, and long enough for her to recline in. "Is this..." her words trail off, she cannot even begin to believe this room is _hers_.

"A room fitting of your station, Listener." Cicero tosses her knapsack on the bed. It lands with a thump, some of the contents haphazardly spilling out across the rich, green quilt. But Lumen doesn't care, all she can focus on are the arms winding around her and the lips finding her neck. "Shall we test out the bed? Or the table? Or, _ooh_ , perhaps we could forgo both and Cicero can take his sweet Listener up against the wall?"

"Cicero--" Lumen sucks in a sharp breath when he nips her neck. Even though he is rather insistent, and the heat building within her is incredibly distracting, it's not enough to distract her from the fact that she _really_ needs a bath. "Cicero, wait, I'm absolutely filthy."

"I know, I know! Cicero is rather fond of sweet Lumen's filthy mind," he says, his deft hands quickly undoing the buckles of Lumen's leather armor. "It is almost as filthy as mine!"

"Stop that!" she laughs and pushes him away. "I mean, I need to take a bath. I've been traveling for days and I feel gross. I probably smell like a horse!"

"Only a little," Cicero says with a grin. "Very well, if it is a bath you want, then it is a bath you shall get."

Lumen marvels at the bathtub. It's rather more advanced than anything she's seen since coming to Skyrim. Granted, she hadn't been to too many nice places. The tub is equipped with a drain to dispose of the dirty water, and a faucet to fill it with hot water. "This Sanctuary actually has plumbing?" she asks. “That’s amazing.”

"Just because the rest of this frozen country is uncivilized, doesn't mean the Dark Brotherhood has to be. Cicero thinks some of the Jarl's palaces would have plumbing, maybe some noble houses as well. But it's not as common here as it is in Cyrodiil." Cicero resumes his task of unbuckling her armor as Lumen impatiently waits for the tub to fill with water. "The plumbing was here already, it only needed a few minor repairs to get it working properly." He looks up at her expectantly. "Are you pleased?"

"Of course I am," she says, kissing the tip of his nose. "More than that, I'm happy to be home, and--" Lumen stops herself from saying too much. From saying _"I'm just happy to be with you."_ She already told him she missed him. There's no need to go overboard with the sentimentalities. Such things felt foreign on her tongue, anyway.

"And?" Cicero presses.

"Nothing," she says, piling her leather armor in an empty chair before shucking her cotton underarmor and smallclothes. "Nothing at all." She casts a smile at him, even though his eyes are hardly focused on her face at the moment, and she sinks into the warm bathwater with a sigh. "So? Tell me what you've been up to while I was away."

"Cicero is not really in the mood to talk." The hot bathwater feels cool compared to the heat in his voice. He sheds his motley quickly, letting it drop to the floor rather than meticulously folding it as he usually does. The urgency in his voice and in his actions is somewhat startling. Most think him crazy, but Lumen knows that Cicero is very much in control of himself and his desires. She's usually the one throwing caution to the wind.

"That's a first. You're always in the mood to talk. You even talk in your sleep," she says, yelping in surprise when Cicero leaps into the tub, sending a wave of water over the edge. Lumen has no time to even complain about the mess, because Cicero holds her face in both his hands and crushes his lips against hers. His hands move from her cheeks and to her ears, fingers gently running along the length, and then tweaking the pointed tip. Lumen gasps and arches against him. "Gods," she groans, pleasure humming through her body at his attentions, and at the weight of his hard length pressing against her thigh.

"Well, I could talk, or I could do _this_." His lips travel down her neck, across her collarbone and to the swell of her breasts. He gently bites the top of her breast before moving to take her nipple in his mouth. Cicero holds her still with one hand splayed on her back, the other drifting between her legs. He pulls away for a moment to ask, "What would you prefer?"

Lumen grabs the back of his head, urging him to resume his ministrations. "Don't you dare stop, you little shit."

Cicero chuckles at the term of endearment, and does as his Listener bids.

* * *

Hours later, Cicero is curled up against Lumen’s back, his forehead resting against the nape of her neck as he listens to her breathe. There are towels littered around the bathtub, soaking up the water that had sloshed out when Cicero decided to take his Listener then and there. Afterwards, they stumbled to the bed, knocking her knapsack and its contents to the floor. Lumen had made an effort to clean the mess, but Cicero had thrown her on the bed, determined to show her just how much he’d missed her company. He is not usually so forceful with Lumen, but he knows she would tell him to stop if she does not want his attentions. As it is, she thoroughly enjoyed them. Multiple times.

“Lumen?” he whispers. “Are you awake?”

There is no answer. Just the gentle cadence of her breathing. Cicero curls his arm around her, pressing his nose into her hair and inhaling her scent. He holds her as tight as he can without hurting her, and he is glad she is not awake to witness his desperation to keep her close. He knows she is the Listener, and she is the Dragonborn, and her destiny will take her to far away places. But he never thought she would have to travel through time. The reality of what is expected of her weighs heavily on him. He knows she could die fighting Alduin, but a small, cynical voice in the back of his mind reminds him that she could also die by choking on a sweetroll. Life is short and life is often cruel, and it is always unfair. But he does not want to lose her.

An unspoken agreement exists between two assassins when they take each other to bed. It is physical. It is for release. For fun. For company. But Cicero has broken this silent rule. He doesn’t know when it happened. Maybe it was when she made numerous attempts to spend time with him when he was a new and unwanted addition to the Falkreath Sanctuary. Maybe it was when she spared his life. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. All he knows is that he loves her. He loves her and it _hurts_.

People who have been touched by the gods, who must lead destiny rather than be led by it seldom have the luxury of a long life. His only hope is that the Night Mother watches over her and keeps her safe. It is selfish of him to hope, but he does.

Cicero sighs, pressing a kiss to the nape of Lumen’s neck. “Wherever you must go, just promise me that you will come back.” He curls his body around hers, trapping her in the cradle of his arms. “Cicero needs you to come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending was meant to be fluffy, but it turned out kind of sad. :( Oops. Poor Cicero.
> 
> Kodlak being Arnbjorn's father isn't canon at all, but… just look at them! They're pretty similar in appearance and I think the age difference works out too. I didn't think about it until my friend C. Spire said something to me about it. So, I ran with it! :D
> 
> I’ve taken some liberties with the design of the Dawnstar Sanctuary. Where the torture room would be is where the forge is located. I actually hate the idea of taking prisoners to the sanctuary and torturing them for information. The moaning is annoying. Besides, isn’t that what the abandoned shack could be used for? XD Also - plumbing. Really, I think it would be a thing in certain parts of Skyrim. It wouldn’t be advanced by any means. But I do think a proper Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary would be equipped with little amenities to keep the assassins happy. No one wants to deal with a bunch of cranky, unwashed assassins.


	25. Family Matters

It’s nice to spend an uneventful week at home after traveling for days on end. Not that any time spent in a den of assassins could be considered uneventful. Not with a psychotic elf and her pet jester prancing around. But Dawnstar Sanctuary is starting to feel more like home with each passing day. Even still, it’s taking Arnbjorn some time to adjust. The Sanctuary smells strange and new. It’s moldy and damp, made of clay and limestone rather than granite and dirt. The Night Mother is proudly on display, and a translucent spirit roams through the vast hallways. Dawnstar is the total opposite of Falkreath. It’s not necessarily a bad thing; just different.

The forge helps. The forge is familiar; the scent of hot metal, the blazing heat of hot coals, and the flash of sparks that fly through the air when he hammers a blade into shape. Arnbjorn had been stunned when he first saw the forge. It was more than he ever had in Falkreath; weapon racks ready to be filled, chests full of supplies, brand new workbenches, and grates in the ceiling to vent the smoke. Whomever Nazir had hired to design it certainly knew what they were doing. He went through Delvin Mallory, most likely. The Breton tends to hire Argonians for any Thieves Guild or Brotherhood work. They are the only people in Tamriel who can keep a secret, and they know better than to cross either organization.

He even has his own room. He’d assumed he’d be lumped into the initiates quarters but according to Nazir, the Listener had insisted he have his own space. His room, the forge, it’s nothing more than blatant ass-kissing, but he certainly isn’t going to complain. Lumen is rarely kind or thoughtful, and he knows she’s only trying to pacify him. To keep him happy because the Dark Brotherhood needs assassins and needs a blacksmith. But he thinks, in some ways, she needs him. Not in any sentimental way, but for stability. When she and the clown are together their collective intelligence goes down a few notches, and Arnbjorn is the one to keep them from doing something outrageously stupid.

“Tidbit, don’t stand so close to the forge,” Arnbjorn grumbles.

“But it’s warm,” Lumen says. “It’s the warmest place in the Sanctuary and I love it.”

“Yeah, well, long hair and fire don’t exactly mix. So do us all a favor and take a step away before you go up in flames.” Arnbjorn shakes his head, and turns his attention back to Cicero. He’s been trying to take the Fool’s measurements for new armor. It is not going well. “And _you_ , stand still and stop wasting my time.”

“Cicero is trying!” the Imperial wails. “But you keep tickling him!”

“I barely touched you!” Arnbjorn snarls, and briefly entertains a fantasy of strangling the fool with the strip of marked string he’s been trying to measure him with. “I’m measuring you over your clothes, there’s no way you are that sensitive. So quit messing around.”

“Cicero is very sensitive,” he purrs, his lips curling into a mischievous grin. “Just ask the Listener. She knows. She knows where all of Cicero’s sensitive places are.”

“Cicero,” Lumen warns. “What did I say about harassing Arnbjorn?”

“Not to do it,” he says, trying to look as innocent as possible. Trying, and failing. “But poor Cicero is not _harassing_ Arnbjorn, he is just talking to him! And it is not Cicero’s fault if he has sensitive skin! Poor Cicero is the one being harassed!”

Arnbjorn grumbles a few, choice obscenities and then thrusts the measuring string at Lumen. “Here,” he says. “I have most of what I need but _you_ can measure his damn inseam.”

“Fine,” Lumen sighs, kneeling and and measuring the inner seam of Cicero’s trousers.

“Ohh, Listener,” the fool growls, his voice pitching lower than Arnbjorn has ever heard it. “While you’re down there, you could--”

“Say it and I will punch you right in the snowberries,” Lumen snaps, and Cicero falls silent at that. The Bosmer’s threats of bodily harm are not to be taken lightly. “Twenty eight inches,” Lumen says. “Why are you making new armor for us? My old armor is holding up perfectly.”

“New Sanctuary, new armor,” he answers, taking the string when Lumen offers it. “All right clown, that’s all I need from you.” He turns to Lumen. “You’re next. I hope you aren’t as sensitive as Cicero.”

“Oh she is, but you have to take her clothes off to get her to squeal,” Cicero says, cackling at Lumen’s resulting glare and wisely fleeing the room.

“Sithis help me, I’m going to strangle him,” Lumen grumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“He’d probably enjoy it if you did,” Arnbjorn says as he begins to take her measurements.

Measuring Lumen goes as smoothly as he hoped it would. She stands still, holding her arms out without ever needing to be told, which is interesting. So far, he hasn’t seen her in custom made armor. Even her old Shrouds were a spare set of Astrid’s. He cannot imagine Lumen ordering custom made clothes. The elf only ever wears the simple clothing of a commoner. But as Arnbjorn loops the measuring string around her ample chest, then around her waist, and drifting even lower to measure the wide swell of her hips, he is struck by how curvy the elf is. There is a fair amount of hard-earned muscle in her frame, but it is hidden behind a layer of soft skin thanks to her diet of wine, sweets, and rich meats. The elf may dress like a commoner, but she has the tastes of someone who has known a life of luxury.

Lumen clears her throat, and Arnbjorn realizes he’s lingered around her hips for longer than strictly necessary. “Sorry,” he says, moving away from her to write the measurements down, not because he needs to, but because he’d rather she didn’t see how flushed he is. He could blame the heat of the forge, but truly, it’s from the heat of the memory of what those hips look like _unclothed_. “I was, uh-- thinking,” he says, immediately regretting his choice of words. “About-- the armor. I was thinking about the armor.”

The elf, to her credit, does not tease him. Instead, she asks, “Is that all you need?”

“Yeah, that’s all,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at her. She’s looking down at the floor, the tips of her ears blushing pink. Damn. She’d seen right through his flimsy excuse. “You can go. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.” He turns away, pretending to study the numbers on the parchment, but just hoping she’ll leave before he embarrasses himself further. Or before he does something he might regret. Which is difficult considering his hypersensitive nose is able to pick up the slightest shift in her pheromones, and just when he’s close to demanding she leave, he hears her boot scuff against the ground as she walks away.

Arnbjorn breathes a sigh of relief once her distracting presence is gone, but he is not relieved for long. He finally turns his focus to the numbers scrawled across the parchment, belatedly realizing he forgot to measure _her_ inseam.

“Shit.”

* * *

Lumen walks through the Sanctuary in a daze. _“What in the Void was that about?”_ she wonders. Everything had been going fine. Normal, even. But he just stopped at her hips, the knuckles of his fingers lightly touching her as he took her measurement, but then he didn’t move away. His silver eyes had swept across the expanse of her hips, and for a moment she considered snapping at him before he had the chance to fling an insult at her. But she hadn't seen judgment in his eyes, it was something else entirely. It had been-- awkward, to say the least. And a little enticing. It's not as if she often has a man on his knees looking at her like _that_.

She shakes her head to dismiss those distracting thoughts. They make no sense and she has no time for such things. The only reason they are in her head is because of Cicero and his endless innuendos. She walks faster through the winding corridors of the sanctuary, determined to tell Cicero off for the millionth time, even though she knows it will do little good. Still, the way the Keeper makes up for his misdeeds is always an enjoyable experience.

Lumen pushes her bedroom door open, surprised to see Cicero sitting on her bed. He's so quiet and so still, he doesn't even turn his head or greet her. Instead, his eyes are riveted to a letter in his hands. Her heart drops when she recognizes it; Malrian's intercepted missive. And she never told Cicero about it.

"Cicero?" she says, wincing at how her voice wavers. She can deal with manic Cicero, but she does not know how to deal with an angry Cicero. “Where did you find that?”

“Cicero thought he would unpack your things for you,” he says distractedly, still staring down at the parchment in his hands. “Cicero is wondering why you did not tell him about this…”

"I-- I can explain--"

He looks up then, fear and anger etched across his sharp features. "I certainly hope so," he snaps, his jester persona falling to the wayside in the wake of his anger. "How long have you had this?"

"A while," she admits. "Delphine gave it to me when we were at the Forsworn camp."

"When she asked to speak with you privately," Cicero murmurs, lost in the memory of that night. "And when you returned you were distraught, but you did not tell me why." He takes a few measured breaths, and Lumen can tell he's desperately trying to stay calm. "Cicero needs to know if the Thalmor are hunting you! Especially _this_ one! And you-- you ran off with Arnbjorn to go climb some godsforsaken mountain, and I am betting he did not know either! Is Cicero wrong?"

"It doesn't matter! We didn't see any Thalmor patrols, and it's not as if they would have lived through an encounter with us anyway!" she exclaims, knowing her voice is rising with each word, but not caring. "This is my problem to deal with, not yours!”

A rough, humorless laugh escapes him, and he gets to his feet, stomping across the room until they are nose to nose. "It is my problem too! Not only did this particular Justiciar wage a war against Dark Brotherhood, but he is the reason I lost not one, but _two_ Sanctuaries, and _two_ families! Cicero lost everything because of him!”

Lumen's jaw tenses. He's right, of course. He's never talked about what happened in Cyrodiil in detail, or at length. Whenever she asked, Cicero would clam up. So she just stopped asking. She assumed it was something best left in the past. "Cicero--"

"And now he wants _you_ ," he says, his voice wavering as his rage finds focus. "Well, he cannot have you! Cicero will not see another Listener die and yet another Sanctuary fall." And with that, he pushes past her and walks out the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Cicero is going to tell our family what he has just found out!"

"What?" Lumen gasps and chases after him. "No you are not! That's private!"

"It is not private," he snaps, walking faster and careful to keep out of her reach. "It is _everyone's_ business when the Listener is a target!"

"No," she breathes. When she told her family what she knew about Malrian and the fall of the Brotherhood, she only briefly mentioned that he kept her as a pet. That part of her history is irrelevant compared to the fact that he almost destroyed the Dark Brotherhood. But that letter, even though it says so little, reveals entirely too much. "No, please, Cicero-- let's talk about this!"

"There is nothing to talk about!" he shouts, his voice echoing off the stone walls as he enters the large, common area. He tosses the letter on the table in front of a very annoyed Nazir, then rounds on Lumen. "And _you_!" He pokes her to emphasize his point. "You are not going anywhere! No more _Dragonborning_ until this Thalmor is dead! You will not leave the safety of the Sanctuary--"

"Excuse me?" Lumen snarls, distantly aware of Luka asking why the Listener and the Keeper are shouting, _again_. "You're not the boss of me! You can't tell me what to do!"

"That's enough!" Nazir's voice booms. The Redguard seldom raises his voice, but when he does, he always makes his point. "Both of you need to calm down, right now!"

Arnbjorn muscles his way in between Lumen and Cicero, opting to drag Cicero a few feet away from her. She's not certain if he thinks Cicero is a danger to her, or vice versa. "Would someone please tell me what's going on?" he asks.

Nazir sighs, glancing down at the paper Cicero had tossed down amidst the game of cards he and Luka had been playing. His eyes skim over the letter, carefully taking in each word. In the wake of Nazir's silence, Cicero speaks up. "The Listener neglected to tell any of us that she is being hunted by the Thalmor."

"What?" Arnbjorn asks, letting Cicero go and accepting the letter from Nazir when he hands it over. "Don't you think something like that is important for us to know?"

"That is what Cicero said!"

Oh, great. The very last thing she needs is Cicero and Arnbjorn teaming up against her. "It's--" her voice catches in her throat, because there are too many eyes on her, too many people expecting a suitable answer when she has none. "It's embarrassing." Her feeble admission is met with silence, and she stares down at her feet, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.

"What does re-education mean in this instance?" Nazir asks.

"Torture," Lumen answers, and Cicero makes an indignant noise, but she chooses to ignore him. "Torture that will probably result in death. Not many survive Thalmor re-education. You wouldn't _want_ to survive it, honestly."

"This is a lot of effort to go through just to kill you," Luka comments, taking the letter and holding it up to the light, checking for a watermark or any sort of secret code.

"Malrian is nothing if not determined," Lumen says weakly. "And very thorough."

Nazir leans back in his chair, idly picking at the frayed edge of a playing card as he mulls things over. Arnbjorn's expression is unreadable, as is Babette's . Cicero is glaring daggers at her, and Luka, oddly enough, is smiling. "Don't worry, Miss Lumen," he says. "What is one Justiciar against the might of the Dark Brotherhood?"

Lumen breathes a soft laugh. "Nazir," she begins. "Do me a favor and catch Luka and Arnbjorn up on Malrian's history with the Dark Brotherhood. I trust you still remember what I told you?"

"I do, Listener."

"Good-- I need to take a walk.” Lumen turns on her heel and races up the stone staircase, ignoring Cicero shouting for her to come back, and ignoring the Night Mother's ethereal pull. She doesn't even pause to grab a cloak. She just races outside into the cold, Dawnstar night.

* * *

It is a bitterly cold night, not that Lumen is surprised. It’s always miserable in Dawnstar. She shivers as the damp, northern winds whip through her hair. The moisture in the air and the hazy clouds above are a sign that it will snow soon. But she doesn't care, she just needs to be alone, and out in the open air so that if she needs to run in order to seek a little privacy, she can.

Her family knows very little about her true history with Malrian, and they have been respectful enough to not pry. But now they've all read that damn letter. In it, she's described as nothing more than property, just a _thing_ to be reclaimed, and perhaps the shame she feels is exactly what she deserves. Because she had once been so weak, and so eager to please her master, lapping up his praise whenever she could. Is she so different now? She lives for the Night Mother's praise, even beams at the praise Cicero affords her. Is she truly free or has she simply traded one master for another? And what will happen when Malrian finds her? Will she be able to resist him, or will she fall at his feet?

Her self-loathing is nothing in comparison to her anger. She is both angry at herself and at Cicero. All she wanted was the chance to tell her family about that letter in her own words and in her own time, in some way that could shield her from the caustic shame of being _owned_.

The distinctive sound of the Black Door opening and closing pulls her from her brooding. "Go away," she snaps, not bothering to look over her shoulder. “I want to be alone.”

"Is that any way to talk to the man who so thoughtfully brought you a cloak?" Arnbjorn asks, draping a heavy fur cloak around Lumen's shoulders. "Oh, and then there's the fact that I had to wrestle Cicero into submission just to give you a few moments of respite."

"Oh, gods. You didn't hurt him, did you?" she gasps, looking up at Arnbjorn. Regardless of how angry she is, she still cares for the fool.

Arnbjorn laughs and shakes his head. "Only his pride," he says. "He is understandably concerned for your safety. He just-- shows it in a really irritating way."

"Are you actually defending Cicero?" Lumen pulls the cloak tighter, the anger she had initially felt now twisting into something less sharp and raw. "He acted like a complete ass."

"Yeah? And you're acting like an idiot," Arnbjorn says, a slight edge to his voice. "You two simpletons are perfect for each other."

"Fuck off."

"What are you thinking running outside, without a cloak, on a night like this?” he asks, completely ignoring her harsh words. “And for what reason? Because of that letter?”

"It's embarrassing," Lumen murmurs, her voice muffled by her cloak. “It reveals too much. It’s shameful. I never wanted anyone to know about that part of my life.”

"What's shameful is high-tailing it out of the Sanctuary and pouting about it. If you are so worried about us thinking less of you, it won't be for your past, but in how you deal with it."

"I guess I could have handled things a with a little more poise," she admits.

"Yeah, you could have, to say the very least." Arnbjorn pats her on the back. "Come back inside, tidbit. The clown is upset, Babette and Nazir are already plotting against the Aldmeri Dominion-- _I think_. I don’t know. They’ve gone quiet. Which never bodes well for anyone if you ask me. And Luka is willing to hunt down any and all Thalmor in Skyrim under the condition that he can use their bodies in his experiments."

"Uh--" Lumen glances up at that. "What sort of experiments?"

"I didn't ask for clarification," he says, sounding a little unnerved. "Necromancers are always a little strange, and that boy is no exception."

Lumen sighs, resigned. "All right, let's go back inside.”

The Sanctuary is relatively quiet when they return. Nazir is deep in thought; his elbows resting on the table, and his chin resting on his fist. Babette and Luka are engaged in a hushed debate about whether or not Altmer make decent thralls due to all the majicka in their bodies. And a very rumpled Cicero is sitting at the end of the table, sulking. It's a fairly normal scene, all things considered.

Nazir looks up when he notices Lumen and Arnbjorn enter the room. "Shall we work on a plan? Do you know where this Justiciar is? It wouldn't be so difficult to take him out." Nazir’s voice is the very essence of calm, and why wouldn’t it be? Plotting an assassination is business as usual for the Dark Brotherhood.

"I haven't a clue where he is," she admits. "My best guess would be the Thalmor Embassy, but I'm willing to bet they’ve increased security. Malrian is very cautious, as is Elenwen." Lumen heaves a sigh and runs her hand through her hair, her gaze flicking to a still pouting Cicero and then back to Nazir. "I can't worry about the Thalmor right now. Despite Cicero's objections, the dragons pose a more immediate threat, and I need to make plans to leave for Winterhold. Do you think you can hold down the fort while I'm gone?"

"I'm sure we will manage, Listener. I have your list of petitioners for contracts, so we'll be able to stay busy for a while."

"That reminds me," Babette chimes in. "I have two potential recruits you should meet, their names are Cyril and Eola. One is a vampire and the other is, um, a priestess of Namira. I think they would be fine additions to the family."

"Where can I find them?"

"In the Reach, I-- _Lumen_ , why are you making that face?"

Lumen groans. "Because if I step foot in the Reach I'm certain Madanach and Delphine will materialize from thin air and start making demands," she says. "The Reach isn't exactly on the way to Winterhold, either." Lumen bites her lip, tapping her foot as she mulls things over. "Do you trust these two?"

"I trust them as much as I trust any of you," Babette says, and Lumen is not sure if that's an insult or not. "Cyril and I share the same sire, and Eola-- well, at first I thought Cyril had her thralled, but that's not the case. She just really likes him and really likes to kill, so I believe we can trust her."

"That's good enough for me. Tell you what, you go to the Reach and tell them they're welcome to join. Give them a contract if you really want to put them through some sort of initiation."

"You don't want to do it yourself?" she asks, her brows lifting in surprise.

Of course she would ask. Astrid was adamant about interviewing potential recruits, and making sure they would kill on her command. Astrid needed that loyalty and admiration. But Lumen is not Astrid. Loyalty to the Night Mother is what she wants, and if they are loyal to Mother, then they are loyal to her by default. She doesn't suffer from the same insecurities that Astrid suffered from, and Astrid didn't have the fate of the world resting on her shoulders. Lumen does not have the _time_ to demand loyalty.

"I trust your judgment," Lumen tells her. "You can do it, if you like."

Babette seems a little stunned, but she nods and says "As you wish, Listener."

"Well?" Lumen steps closer to Cicero, who has been going through great efforts to keep his back turned to her. It’s hard not to laugh at him, she’s seen angry Khajiits do the same. "No objections to me doing a little _Dragonborning_?"

Cicero snorts, unable to continue to ignore her after that. "Would it matter if Cicero did object? Lumen would ignore him as she always does."

"You know that's not true," she says, gently touching his shoulder. To her relief, he does not flinch away or shrug her off. "Will you come to Winterhold with me?"

"Cicero has little choice in the matter," he snaps. "Cicero has to go so he can protect the Listener from the nasty Thalmor. Sweet Lumen has probably forgotten what Luka said about the college."

If Cicero is calling her 'Sweet Lumen' again, then he is not as angry with her as he once was. Unfortunately for him, _she_ is still angry. But her anger can wait. "What? Oh, you mean the part about there being a Thalmor on the college grounds? I remember. We'll just have to be careful. And if he does recognize me, who cares? I'm not afraid of _one_ Thalmor." Just one very specific Thalmor, but she doubts Malrian is at the college.

"Oh, very well," Cicero sighs, pushing away from the table. "When do we leave?"

“Soon,” she says, motioning for him to follow her, and she sets off down the hallway that leads to their quarters. Cicero obediently follows, and once they are well out of earshot from the rest of the family, she turns on him and grabs a fistful of his motley, dragging him close to her. "I am sorry I did not tell you about the letter," she growls, her voice more angry than contrite. "And I am sorry you had to find out about it in the way that you did. But when I ask you to wait, when I beg you to talk things over with me before making a rash decision, I expect you to do so."

Cicero growls and pulls away from her, his shoulders tense. "Cicero made a decision because you never would!"

"You don't know that!" Lumen snaps, certain her voice is carrying down the hallway, and not caring at this point. "And it was not your decision to make! Did you not read that letter in its entirety? It listed me as property. _A thing_. Not a person. Do you have any idea how many decisions have been made for me without my consent? Don't do it again!"

"Ah," he says, as realization slowly dawns on him. "Cicero is sorry, sweet Lumen. He did not think--"

"It's fine," Lumen sighs as the anger ebbs away. "You did what you did because you were concerned for my safety. It was not malicious." She reaches for him and smoothes out the wrinkles she made in his motley when she grabbed him. "I _did_ want to tell you about the letter, but it's--" her voice trails off, unable to find the words, and unwilling to say them when they come to mind.

Cicero takes her by the hand and leads her to her room, quietly shutting the door behind them before leading her to the bed and motioning for her to sit down. He moves to sit beside her, placing his hands on his knees as he looks down at his boots. "Most assassins have pasts they are not proud of," he says, his voice lacking its usual high-pitched tone. "Cicero is no exception. You can talk about it if you think it will help, but you do not have to. Regardless, you will find no judgment here."

Lumen picks at a loose stitch in her trousers, not knowing what to say, and opting to say nothing. After a few moments of silence, Lumen reaches for his hand, their fingers twining together as she gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

She cannot give voice to her shame. It is better if they all believe she is ashamed of being kept as a pet, and some part of her is. But more than that, she is ashamed that she once cared for her former Master. Memories of Malrian are hard to bear. Memories of the pain, the anger, and the humiliation. They still come in waves, crashing against her psyche until she can’t stand sobriety any longer and she drinks until her mind is numb and the memories are little more than a dull ache. Worse yet are the pleasant memories. Tiny, little reminders that her Master could be kind. 

She tries to block out the way he would smile indulgently as he tipped a glass of red wine to her lips, or the way that same, smiling mouth would press chaste kisses to her forehead. She tries not to remember the way he would feed her candied ginger, carefully placing it in her mouth and running the tip of his finger across her lips, so that not one bit of sugar would go to waste. Instead she tries to remember the time he punished her for allowing a drop of wine to drip down the edge of the bottle after filling his glass. She reminds herself that his smiling mouth could spill venom as easily as it spilled honey, and that his sugar-coated fingers gave infinitely more pain than pleasure.

Despite the numerous cruelties and torments, she never found the strength to run away until he finally pushed her too far. When she began to fear his affection more than his anger. _Only then_ was she able to run and keep running.

“I can’t,” she finally says. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t. It’s difficult to talk about and I don’t think talking would help much anyway.”

“Cicero understands,” he says, and though he sounds genuine, Lumen does worry that she’s offended him by not being able to confide in him.

“Do you really?” She does not mean for the question to sound like a challenge. But the events of the night have worn her down, and she does not have the energy to school her voice into something more neutral.

“I do,” he says slowly, carefully measuring his words. “Cicero knows that talking does not always help. Just as prodding at an old wound can cause pain, even long after it has scarred over. Cicero only wished to let sweet Lumen know that she is free to bend his ear if she truly needs to.”

“Thanks,” she says softly, deciding a change of subject is in order. “So, you really will come to Winterhold with me?”

“Of course! Luka said the college will not let non-mages inside and you will need sweet Cicero’s help just to get through the front door.”

“I don’t think being able to cast a magelight spell necessarily means you’re a mage,” she says. “What if they want you to summon a dremora?”

“Cicero is no mage, but he knows enough basic spells to maybe pass for one,” he says, grinning mischievously. “You really ought to learn a simple magelight spell at the very least. I am sure Luka would teach you.”

“No,” she says firmly. “All my previous attempts at casting have ended in complete and utter failure. I almost set myself on fire with a magelight spell, and I somehow managed to shock myself with an ice spell. I gave up on magic after that.”

Cicero howls with laughter at her admission.“Oh, Lumen that is-- that is _pathetic_!”

Lumen grumbles a few choice insults under her breath, immediately regretting being so honest about her shortcomings with magic. “Yeah? Well I don’t need to learn any stupid spells,” she says, folding her arms and pretending to sulk. “I can breathe fire!”

“It is a good thing you show some proficiency with Shouting, otherwise you would have blown yourself up on the first try!” he says, cackling. “Or maybe they would’ve come out the other end!”

“Don’t be crass!” Lumen manages to say before she’s overcome with laughter. She falls back onto her bed, unable to stop laughing, and not wanting to. No matter how terrible things seem, Cicero can always make her laugh, and Lumen thinks that, perhaps, that’s all she really needs.

* * *

After the drama caused by Cicero and Lumen over the intercepted missive, the rest of the week passes by in a blur. Arnbjorn spends his days crafting armor, and his evenings with his siblings; playing cards, drinking too much, and sharing stories of past contracts. It's no different than how he would spend his time in Falkreath, and he appreciates the familiarity of it all. He has kept quiet about the contents of the letter. The Listener was understandably upset when Cicero decided to parade it through the Sanctuary, and Arnbjorn can’t blame her for that. He has absolutely no desire to question her about it. It’s likely to result in more shouting, and he’d prefer to avoid that if he can.

Cicero and Lumen seem to have made up, as they always do. The Sanctuary is certainly more peaceful when those two are getting along. The Listener and the Keeper often butt heads throughout the day, but their arguments are more flirtatious than anything. Luka once asked him why the two quarrel so much, and Arnbjorn had no answer for him. He only suggested that he try to ignore them when they go at it. Because their verbal sparring matches aren't so much a _quarrel_ , but a form of foreplay, and Arnbjorn has absolutely no desire to explain any of that to Luka.

Arnbjorn yawns and props his feet up on the dining table, which is littered with the remnants of their dinner, and multiple bottles of wine and mead. The rest of his siblings are currently playing a game of cards, but Arnbjorn opted to observe. He'd rather enjoy his ale than lose all his gold to Nazir.

"I'm out," Lumen declares, slapping her cards down on the table. "I need to leave before I lose what's left of my coin and my dignity." She pushes away from the table, wobbling slightly when she stands. The elf is well into her cups, which is nothing new, but she seems to be in good spirits at least.

"Don't take it personally, Listener," Nazir laughs, and tips his cup to her, a tiny bit of wine sloshing out when he does. Drunk as he is, he's still soundly beating everyone at cards. "You aren't the first sibling to lose all their coin to me and you won't be the last."

Lumen stands behind Cicero, who is staring intently at the cards in his hand. The elf wraps her arms around his shoulders and presses a kiss to his cheek. His permanent grin becomes a bit softer and more genuine at the rare, open display of affection. A slip-up on Lumen's behalf, likely due to her drunkenness, but Cicero does not seem to mind. "Try to win some of my gold back," she says, before pulling away.

"Cicero will certainly try, sweet Lumen," the fool croons, then pushes a stack of gold into the pile in the middle of the table. "All in."

Nazir's grin is nothing short of menacing. "It's your funeral, Keeper."

Arnbjorn would like to watch the game between Nazir and Cicero, but he is distracted by the elf sauntering toward him. She clutches a chipped, earthenware cup of wine in her hands, and there is an extra, drunken sway to her hips as she walks. "So..." she draws out the word more than necessary, and leans her hip against the table as she grins down at him, "Enjoying your swill?" she asks, indicating the flagon of ale in his hands.

"I'll take this swill over that fermented crap you're drinking," he says, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"More for me, then," she says lightly. "How's the armor coming along? I've hardly seen you leave your forge."

"That's because you're usually half-drunk or being carted off by the clown whenever I finish up.”

"I'm not half-drunk now," she says, setting her cup of wine on the table. "Nor am I being carted off."

"True." Arnbjorn nods. "You're completely drunk at this point."

"I am not. I'm just a little tipsy." She waves her hand in the air to dismiss is accusation. "Anyway, I want to see what you've done so far."

"I don't know what you know about armor crafting, tidbit, but it's not a quick process. I've mostly just been preparing the leather. Which reminds me--" he hesitates, recalling what happened the last time he tried to take Lumen's measurements. "I didn't get all of your measurements."

She raises a brow. "You didn't?" she asks, even though her grin tells him that she is well aware that he sent her away too quickly. _Of course_ she's aware. After all, she'd seen right through his weak lie that he was thinking about armor, when he was actually lost in the enticing flare of her hips.

"You _know_ I didn't," he growls. "And I'm in no mood for your games."

"I'm not playing any games with you," she says coolly, glancing over her shoulder at the others. Nazir and Cicero are still involved in a very intense game, and Babette is watching them with interest. The alcohol caught up with Luka hours ago, and he's fast asleep; his arms folded on the table, his head resting against them as he snores softly.

Arnbjorn sighs and stands up without a word to the elf. He heads to his forge to fetch the marked string and bring it back out to the common area to finish up. After grabbing the string and a scrap of parchment to write her measurements down on, he turns around to find Lumen leaning against one of his work benches. He'd been so caught up in his feeble plan, he'd not even heard her follow him. "You didn't have to follow me, tidbit," he says. "I was going to come back."

Lumen shrugs. "I don't mind walking a few feet. I'm lazy, but I'm not _that_ lazy," she says, smiling softly. "Besides, it's nice and toasty in here."

"That it is," he says lamely. He didn't want Lumen to follow him. He doesn't want to be alone with her. Because the room is too small and it's almost impossible to focus when he's distracted by her scent. At least when they are in the common room there are enough various smells to confuse his sensitive nose, and most importantly, the rest of the family is there and he's not likely to make a complete ass of himself when their eyes are on him. But when it's just her, he's at a disadvantage.

He isn't sure when it happened, when her presence shifted from being completely unbearable to surprisingly tolerable. Even Cicero is starting to grow on him, and it helps that some of his jokes are actually funny. Despite the fact that he’s starting to like Lumen and her little fool, he still can’t do anything about whatever _this_ is. This strange attraction makes no sense, and it’s going to drive him insane. Because he certainly can't act on it, not after everything that’s transpired between them, and he can't seem to escape her. It will be a relief when she finally leaves for Winterhold.

"Should I go?"

"No," he says gruffly. "This won't take long." With a heavy sigh, he approaches her and kneels, quickly measuring her inseam and barely touching her as he does so. After writing the measurement down, he says, "Almost done." He isn't certain if he's informing her or assuring himself that this torment will be over soon. All that's left is to measure the girth of her leg to ensure the armor has a proper fit. He starts at her ankle, and then moves to her calf. But when he wraps the string around her thigh, it's difficult for him to ignore the delicate flex of her muscle. Or the way her breath catches when his fingers graze along the inside of her thigh as he guides the string around. Even through her doeskin breeches, he can feel the heat radiating from her body when he touches her.

With an unsteady hand, he writes down the rest of her measurements, surprised that he is even able to do so. He stands from where he kneels on the floor, and he means to turn away from her, to take the parchment and string back to his small writing desk. But instead, he leans against his workbench, placing his hands on either side of Lumen, who is standing stark-still like a frightened deer.

It would be so easy to close the distance between them, to press his lips to hers. But he hasn't imbibed enough alcohol to chase away all sense, and he knows that kissing her would cause more problems than it would solve. It would validate that damn fool and his endless innuendos, for one, and it could potentially destroy their fragile friendship. The price of a single kiss is too high, and just thinking about it reminds Arnbjorn of their catastrophic tryst. Regardless of Lumen's ill-considered actions, he is still deeply ashamed of his own. He is no base predator. He is not some beast that takes what isn't offered. He is a wolf. He is cunning and intelligent. He is proud, and even though he is an assassin, he still has honor. That night, he let his bestial nature get the better of him. It took over, and when all was said and done he was left with nothing but pain and regret.

Movement from Lumen pulls Arnbjorn from his brooding, and he notices her hand hovering over his chest. He's not sure if she means to pull him closer or push him away, and Lumen seems to be caught in indecision. With a sigh, she lets her hand drop to the edge of the table, her fingers accidentally grazing against his. 

"Should I go?" she asks again, her voice barely audible.

"Yeah," is all he can manage to say. There's so much he would like to tell her. Maybe he could attempt to explain himself. But he knows too many words would get tangled on his tongue, or trapped in his throat. Arnbjorn was never good at this sort of thing, and really, what would he say to her? _“I want to kiss you and I don't really know why. I just know it's a bad idea.”_ She would either laugh at him, or insult him, and then there’s the terrifying possibility that she would want the same.

Lumen slips away from him and out the door, and for the first time in what feels like ages, Arnbjorn takes a proper breath. He doesn't know what's gotten into him, he just knows it's dangerous and he needs to get it under control before he does something astoundingly stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cicero and Lumen really need to work on their conflict resolution, don’t they? Those two are a mess. And then there’s poor Arnbjorn. I think he’s officially received his Woobie Card for this chapter. XD I really enjoy love triangles. Maybe “love” is a bit of a strong word for this scenario. It’s more like a “You’re not as horrible as I once thought” triangle. Ah, but that doesn't flow very well... Er, anyway, I hope you guys are enjoying Arnbjorn’s suffering. :D I know I am.
> 
> Next Chapter: Cicero and Lumen head to Winterhold! Shenanigans ensue. :)
> 
> As always, thanks so much for the comments and kudos! :D


	26. Elder Knowledge

"Miss Lumen, I don't mean to seem disrespectful, but why do I have to come with you?" Luka asks, tugging his cloak around his shoulders as Lumen stares down at him from her high vantage point on Shadowmere’s back. "I told you I wouldn't be allowed back at the college." 

"I know what you said," Lumen says, barely able to talk through the chattering of teeth. "But we might need your help.”

“That’s right.” Cicero pulls himself up on Shadowmere, settling himself behind Lumen and snuggling closer to her than strictly necessary. “You don’t have to go to the college, you can just relax at the inn.”

Lumen nods. “I thought it would be a good idea to bring you along because you know quite a lot about, uh, magey things.”

“Magey things,” Luka murmurs, casting a wary glance at his borrowed horse. “Very well, um-- does this thing bite?”

“That _thing’s_ name is Felix, and no, he’s never bitten anyone,” Lumen says, watching Luka with some amusement as he struggles to mount the horse. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to ride a horse.”

Luka grunts as he rights himself in the saddle and grips the horses reins tightly. “I know the basics, but it’s not my preferred method of travel. I trust my own two feet more than I trust some farm animal.”

At that comment, Shadowmere snorts and paws at the ground. “Careful,” Cicero says. “Felix might not bite, but we cannot promise the same of Shadowmere. He is one of _us_ , you know.”

“Right.” Luka awkwardly pats Felix on the neck. “My apologies, then.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t fall off,” Lumen murmurs, thoroughly amused with Luka’s fumbling.

The two horses trundle down the snow covered road. The snow grows thicker and more abundant as they draw closer to their destination. Lumen shivers miserably, while Cicero convinces Luka to play a game of 'I Spy' with him. Luka seems happy to oblige, and Lumen is content to the ignore them both. Instead, she mulls over the events of the previous night. She had told Cicero about what happened with Arnbjorn. How he became so intense and _weird_ , and she was fairly certain he was going to kiss her but didn't. Cicero expressed disappointment, and said "Then _you_ kiss him next time, and if anything naughty happens be sure to call for Cicero so he can watch." Lumen still doesn't know what to make of any of that, but she doubts Arnbjorn would appreciate Cicero's voyeurism. She, however, is quite used to it.

Truth be told, she's not certain what she wants in regards to Arnbjorn. It's strange enough to be involved with someone like Cicero, who is completely fine with her sleeping with other people as long as she tells him about it, and presumably affords him the same freedom. He's never specifically asked if it would bother her if he did, but she can only assume he might want to do the same. She wouldn't mind it, and it might be fun to simply observe. Would he choose a man or a woman? Would he treat them as gently as he treats her, or would he be rough? The idea of watching Cicero utterly dominate someone is a rather enjoyable thought, and with a few hours between them and their destination, she figures there's no harm in getting lost in the fantasy.

"Are you not feeling well, Miss Lumen?" Luka's voice chases away her torrid fantasies, bringing her back to the bitter chill of the northern winds.

"Er-- what?” she stammers, caught off guard. “I feel fine, why do you ask?”

Luka shrugs. "You look a bit flushed. It is rather cold and it wouldn’t do to have you come down with a fever. I have some potions if you need them."

"I'm fine," she asserts, glancing back at Cicero who is watching her with a knowing grin. She affords him a little, playful wink before turning her gaze forward.

Cicero digs his heel into Shadowmere’s side, prompting the horse to walk ahead of Luka, giving the two assassins a modicum of privacy. “Something on your mind?” he asks. “Something to do with what you told me last night, perhaps?”

“Yes and no,” she admits.

“Well now Cicero is even more curious. What could have you blushing like a virgin?” Cicero laughs when Lumen growls low in her throat. “Are you entertaining thoughts of improving your relations with our dear brother?”

“No,” she says firmly. “And I don’t think kissing him would improve relations. If anything, it would make things even more weird than they already are. I deal with enough weirdness on a daily basis. I don’t need to add to it.” She pauses for a moment to give into a shiver, and Cicero presses even closer to her. His warmth barely permeates through her thick, leather armor, but she appreciates the gesture. “For all I know, he was thinking about snapping my neck rather than anything else. I probably misinterpreted things.”

“Bah, I highly doubt that. Cicero told you _ages_ ago that Arnbjorn has, hmm-- an appreciation for sweet Lumen’s shapely posterior,” he says, a maniacal giggle threading through his words.

“Yeah?” she snaps. “A lot of really horrible shit has happened between then and now. I’m not even going to talk about what happened in Dawnstar, but he lost his Sanctuary and his wife--”

“Surely he is done mourning her by now,” he sniffs. “Cicero certainly is.”

“Cicero,” Lumen growls.

“Besides, you said he rutted some bard all night when you two were in Ivarstead! Surely that is a good sign.”

“It’s called a rebound,” Lumen sighs. “That doesn’t mean he’s over Astrid.”

“I suppose not,” Cicero giggles. “It just means he is horny. Which might work out rather well for you if you decide to take the initiative. All that pent up angst and lust, just waiting to be unleashed. It is rather titillating, don’t you think? Like something you would read in a seedy pillow book! Cicero can just imagine it now; shirts ripping, buttons flying, bosoms heaving--”

“Please _stop_.” Lumen closes her eyes, silently praying to the Night Mother for strength. Otherwise she might Shout Cicero right off Shadowmere’s back. “I’ve got my hands full dealing with one horny idiot. I don’t need _two_ of them in my life.”

“Do not knock it until you have tried it, sweetness,” Cicero purrs in her ear. “So, if you weren’t blushing to thoughts of Arnbjorn, what were you thinking about?”

“I’m not telling you,” she says briskly. “I don’t think you deserve to know.”

“What? But Cicero wants to know!” Cicero whines. “Cicero has a right to know if it was about him-- it _is_ about Cicero, yes? Who else might you be fantasizing about?” He falls quiet for a few blissful seconds before gasping, “Is it Nazir?”

Lumen heaves a long suffering sigh. “No, it’s not Nazir,” she says flatly.

“Is it Luka?”

“Did you say my name, Cicero? Do you need me?” Luka shouts. “I’d try to get closer but I don’t know how to make the horse go faster.”

“Oh, no, it is all right,” Cicero calls over his shoulder. “Cicero was just asking Lumen if she was having dirty thoughts about you.”

“What? That’s-- Oh--” Luka stammers, then falls silent.

“Cicero.” Lumen drags her hand down her face, utterly exasperated. “I can tell you with certainty that I am not having dirty thoughts about _anyone_. I am, however, entertaining the thought of having you walk to Winterhold with no shoes if you don’t behave yourself.”

“You would not really do something so cruel to poor Cicero, would you?”

“I will if you keep teasing me,” she warns, and Cicero lets the subject drop after that. Instead of focusing on teasing Lumen, he hums a soft tune for the remainder of their uncomfortably cold journey. His near-silence gives Lumen plenty of time to worry about the Thalmor stationed at the college. She hopes he doesn’t interfere with her business there, or get near her at all. Her temper is volatile enough, and the last thing she needs is to be harassed by some Thalmor. Cicero certainly has his ways of calming her down, but she isn’t so sure he would be successful at this point.

* * *

Winterhold is not what Lumen expected. She's not surprised to discover it's a small, miserably cold town, covered in snow and full of cranky Nords. But she did not expect it to be situated on the edge of a crumbling cliff, nor did she expect half of the buildings there to be little more than wooden bones jutting from the snow.

"Well, this place is a shit-hole," Lumen says, ignoring the offended grunt from the Nord stable hand Cicero is dealing with.

"Most of the city fell into the sea nearly eighty years ago," Luka explains, falling into step beside Lumen as the trio of assassins leave the stables behind and make their way to the local inn. "The residents didn't bother to rebuild. I think most of them spend their time drinking at the inn."

"I don't blame them,” Lumen says as they stop in front of the inn. She hands Luka a small coin purse. "Use this to rent a room. Stay hidden just in case anyone from the college comes by and recognizes you. I don't need you being chased out of town by an angry mob."

"Oh, I don't think they would react _that_ badly," Luka says. "But I will do as you say, Miss Lumen. Good luck at the college."

"I like him," Lumen comments as she and Cicero make their way to the bridge. "He's so polite."

"You only like him because he does what you tell him to do," Cicero says, grinning.

"Unlike you," Lumen says, returning the grin, though it fades when she notices the smile slipping from Cicero's face. "What? What is it?" She follows his line of sight to the large, crumbling bridge that connects the city of Winterhold to the college. Standing in the covered archway at the entrance of the bridge is a female Altmer mage. "Wonderful," Lumen murmurs quietly. “Just wonderful. This is all I need.”

"You there!" the mage calls out. "State your business!"

Lumen shares a worried glance with Cicero. They had briefly discussed simply telling the truth about their business at the college, and they had also considered lying, but they never made a decision. If Cicero tried to pretend to be a prospective student, the Altmer blocking their way would likely see right through the ruse, but news of the Dragonborn visiting the college might cause a bit of a stir when word got around. Not that Lumen minds if the students are curious, but she does mind if her presence at the college piques the curiosity of the Thalmor. With a resigned sigh, Lumen steps forward and says, "I seek entry to the college. Not as a student but I need information. I won't be long."

"Only those with magical talents are allowed on college grounds," the Altmer says. "If you are not a mage then I cannot let you in."

Lumen's fingers are itching to draw her blade and dispatch with the annoying mage. It would certainly be easier than trying to convince her to let them in. "Would you consider letting the Dragonborn inside?" she asks, knowing she sounds more aggressive than she ought to, but it's taking every ounce of self control she has to keep herself calm.

The mage laughs, and takes a step closer. “Are you claiming to be the Dragonborn of legend, then?” she asks. 

“Why would I ask that if I wasn’t?” Lumen snaps. 

"You could have been referring to your friend for all I know," the mage says coolly. "Dragonborn or not, rules are rules. Show me a spell and I will let you pass."

"What kind of a spell?" she asks, knowing she will not be able to perform it.

The mage hums thoughtfully, pursing her lips as she looks over the two assassins. "Something simple, I think. Summon a Flame Atronach."

Lumen gapes at her. "I can't do that!" She turns to Cicero. "Can you?"

"No," he sighs, shaking his head. "Poor Cicero cannot do anything like that. He only knows a simple fire spell, but it's only good for lighting candles and such."

"Anyone can do _that_ ," the mage snaps. "Show me a real fire spell, or go away and stop wasting my time. This is a mages college for _mages_ , not amateurs."

"How are people supposed to learn if you do not let them in?" Cicero exclaims, the mage's attitude finally grating on his nerves as well.

"That does it," Lumen growls. "You want to see some fire? I'll show you some fucking fire!" She sucks in a deep breath, the cold, wet air stinging her throat and her lungs. But the chilly sting is soothed by a gout of flame as Lumen Shouts **_"Yol Toor Shul!"_** to the skies. Even though she's not aiming the fire at the Altmer, she can hear the distinct sound of a ward being cast, and Cicero making a startled sound. Lumen watches the fire dissipate in the air before turning her gaze back to the stunned Altmer. "Is that fire real enough for you, or do you require another demonstration?" she asks, her voice rough from the Shout and from the effort of being merciful to the stuck-up mage.

The Altmer's ward vanishes, and her stunned expression shifts into one of disinterest. "I suppose you are who you claim to be, Dragonborn. However, you are no mage, and I cannot let you into the college.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Lumen growls. If it weren’t for the small crowd that gathered after she breathed fire, she’d cheerfully strangle the wretched Altmer and then toss her over the edge of the cliff. Unfortunately, when she’s announced herself as the Dragonborn, she has to behave.

“No, I am not,” the mage snaps. “I’m sorry, but we have to be very restrictive about who is allowed access to the college. It’s for your own safety and ours.” She walks back to her post in the archway of the bridge, shielded from the wind and snow by the thick, stone columns. “If you truly require access to the college, then I suggest you appeal to the Arch-Mage. Write a letter stating your case. If you do that, I will take it to him. He may allow you to enter the college if he thinks you have reason to.”

“But that could take weeks!” Lumen whines. 

“Better get to it, then,” the mage says dismissively.

Lumen huffs and turns on her heel, grabbing Cicero by the wrist. “Come on, let’s go back to the inn.”

* * *

“I can’t let you into the college unless you cast a spell,” Lumen says in a mocking tone. She flops into a chair in the small room Luka rented for the night. “Cast a spell-- I’ll cast my foot right up her ass!”

“Cicero is sorry he could not cast anything impressive, sweet Lumen,” he says, hoping to placate her. “He did not think he would have to summon anything.”

“It’s not your fault,” Lumen sighs. “I didn’t think it’d be so impossible just to get into the college to ask a simple question.”

Luka paces around the room, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. “Faralda is only doing what she’s been told to do,” he explains. “The relationship between the college and the residents of Winterhold has been strained for a long time. The people here blame the college for the destruction of the town.”

“She seemed more interested in judging my lack of magical prowess,” Lumen grumbles. “It’s obvious I wasn’t there to cause problems. She was being rude.”

“I never said she was nice,” Luka says meekly. “There is another way, though…” Lumen and Cicero both stop their sulking and turn their full attention to Luka, who fidgets under the scrutiny of their gaze. “Um, well, she doesn’t guard the bridge at night. It’s too cold. The college does have a gate to keep outsiders, well-- _out_. But I believe I can get us past the gate.”

“How so?” Cicero asks.

Luka chuckles mischievously. “Because when they threw me out they forgot to take away my key.”

“Luka,” Lumen sighs and rubs her temples. “Why didn’t you tell us this in the first place?”

“I--” Luka fumbles for the right words and runs his hands through his messy, blond hair. “Um, I don’t know. I didn’t think about it until now!” He drops his hands to his sides, his hair sticking out at odd angles and the sleeves of his over-sized robe falling past his hands. “I’m sorry, Miss Lumen.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “All right, so-- we wait until nightfall to cross the bridge. Luka gets us into the college and then what? I’m sure you know where the library is, but it’s probably huge. It could take us forever to find anything on the Elder Scrolls.”

“We’ll figure it out, Miss Lumen, and you will have Cicero and me to help you look.” Luka smiles, trying his best to be reassuring. “Don’t worry.”

Lumen glances at Cicero, who merely shrugs. “He is right,” Cicero says. “You’ll have us.”

“That’s reassuring,” Lumen says, not feeling reassured in the slightest, but she has no choice but to trust the two.

The three assassins spend the rest of the day planning their break in. Day turns to dusk, and most of Winterhold’s residents retire to their homes. As night falls over Winterhold, so does the overall temperature. There are no mountains or buildings to block the bitingly cold winds as the three make their way across the causeway. The snow on the stone pathways glitters in the moonlight, but they are all careful to remember that in Skyrim, all that glitters is usually ice. 

Luka leads the group, pointing out slick spots and casting his own frost spells to create rough areas.

“Why not just melt the ice?” Lumen asks. “How is more ice going to help us?”

“Because if I melt it it will freeze again and be just as slick,” Luka explains. “The rough areas create traction, so it’s easier to walk on.”

They come to an area where the parapets have crumbled away on each side, along with some of the pathway, leaving only a small, thin area to walk on. Luka steps across without a second thought, as if he’s done so many times in the past, and he has. Cicero is next, blithely skipping across the broken area, completely unfazed by the fact that it could crumble beneath him, or a strong gust of wind could send him careening into the Sea of Ghosts.

“Don’t look down,” Lumen murmurs to herself as she steps closer to the broken pathway. “Don’t look down. Don’t look-- oh, gods.” She does look down, but only to assure that her feet are where they need to be. But rather than looking at the stones, she looks down into the foggy, snowy death that surely awaits her. “I can’t do this.”

“It’s perfectly safe, Miss Lumen!” Luka says. “Just put on foot in front of the other! This area isn’t even frozen over.”

“A college full of mages but not even a single one of them can be bothered to repair a bridge!” Lumen gasps, stepping away from the ledge and placing her hand on a parapet. “Is everyone in this town too damn lazy to rebuild it?”

Cicero snorts. “The same could be said for most cities in Skyrim.” He steps across and comes to stand by Lumen’s side. “Come on, Cicero will lead you across,” he says, smiling cheerfully. “I did not know you were afraid of heights.”

“I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of falling to my death.” Lumen grips his arm tightly. “And I don’t want you to fall, either!”

“Same thing,” Cicero says, patting her hand. “Your concern is sweet and it warms poor Cicero’s heart, but he is more sure-footed than you give him credit for.” His fingers tighten around hers. “Come on, sweet Lumen, Cicero shall help you cross. Just look forward.”

“But what if I step over the edge?” Lumen whines.

“That pathway is wider than you think it is,” he says, his voice surprisingly calm and reassuring given the circumstances. “You will not fall. Just walk straight. Cicero will lead you across.”

“All right,” Lumen says weakly. She’s gripping Cicero’s hand so hard she knows it has to hurt, but he makes no complaint as he slowly leads her across the broken area of the bridge. He gives her gentle encouragements the entire time, reminding her to look forward, and not to look down, and that everything is fine, and before Lumen realizes it, they’ve finally made it across.

“Wasn’t that easy, sweetness?” he asks, falling into step behind Luka as he leads them to the gate. “You did very well.”

Lumen sighs. “I’m not looking forward to doing it a second time,” she admits. But she’ll worry about that later. Right now, she’s more interested in following Luka through the gate and to the wide double doors of the college. “Are those locked too?”

“No need,” he whispers. “Most people aren’t stupid enough to break into a college full of mages.” He pauses, belatedly realizing that he’s doing exactly just that. “Oh, oops. Well-- we’re not the average burglars--”

“Just open the damn door!” Lumen hisses, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “If I freeze to death I swear to Sithis that I will come back to haunt you!”

“Okay, okay! Keep your voice down!” Luka gingerly pushes the door open and peeks inside. “Come on,” he whispers, motioning for Cicero and Lumen to follow him inside. “I think most of the students are in the dormitories this late at night, but be careful and stay in the shadows anyway.”

The college is dark and quiet, but surprisingly warm. Lumen wonders if the temperature is controlled by magic, and if something similar could be implemented at Dawnstar Sanctuary. The college’s library, or _The Arcanaeum_ , as Luka calls it, is a large, circular room, and well-lit despite the late hour. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and the room smells of old paper, ink, and most of all, _camphora_. Lumen wrinkles her nose at the sickly-sweet odor of the pesticide, surprised that even is a climate as cold as Winterhold, one would have to ward off pests from eating the books.

“I don’t even know where to start looking,” she says, not bothering to whisper. “Is there a catalogue somewhere?”

“Who’s there?” a gruff voice calls out, and both Luka and Cicero dart behind the walls that surround the low, center platform, leaving Lumen alone to deal with a cranky old Orsimer. “Are you a new student?” he asks, then continues to talk without giving Lumen a chance to respond. “Must be. Most students are smart enough to study during the day and leave old Urag to his sleep.”

“I-- I’m sorry I’m--” Lumen stammers, she hadn’t thought to encounter anyone in the library. Nor did she think Luka and Cicero would _abandon_ her!

“Out with it!” he snarls. “I’ll tell you this much; if you manhandle any of my books, I’ll manhandle you, missy!”

“I’m not here to manhandle anything!” Lumen says, deciding honesty might be the best policy with Urag. “I’m looking for an Elder Scroll, and--”

The Orc barks out a rough laugh. “What do you plan to do with and Elder Scroll?” he asks. “And do you really think that even if I did have one here, I would let you see it?”

“Well can you at least tell me about them?” she asks, feeling terribly intimidated by the angry old Orc, who is probably a skilled mage if he’s here at the college. Lumen really hopes she doesn’t end up with a fireball up her backside.

“I knew it. Everyone comes in here, expecting my help, but they don't ask the proper questions,” he sighs, walking away from her and taking a seat at one of the tables in the center of the room. He motions for Lumen to do the same. “An Elder Scroll is an instrument of immense knowledge and power. To read an Elder Scroll, a person must have the most rigorously trained mind, or else risk madness.”

“Madness?” she asks warily. “Why?”

Urag frowns at her question. “Madness and blindness. The Divines usually take the reader’s sight as a price.”

“But why?” she asks again, feeling frustrated. How she’s supposed to fight Alduin after going blind and stark-raving mad is a mystery to her. “And a price? A price for what?”

“A price for knowledge, to put it simply,” he explains. “But there’s nothing simple about an Elder Scroll. It’s a reflection of all possible futures and all possible pasts. Each reader will see something different from the very same scroll, but at the same time, all of it is true.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she murmurs to herself.

Urag laughs. “Yeah, well when you talk about the scrolls you usually end up in irritating, vague metaphors. I suppose that’s why those who study them devoutly go mad.”

“Do you have any information on them?” she asks hopefully. “A book, maybe?”

“I have a question of my own,” he says, staring intently at her. “Why are you looking for an Elder Scroll? After speaking with you, I don’t believe you’re a student of the college, or that you’re even supposed to be here. But I can’t believe you are some thief just looking to claim one as a prize. If you are a thief, you’re a terrible one. Which begs the question; how did you get in?”

“I walked in through the front door,” she answers lamely, cursing her bad luck. “But you’re right, I am not a thief.” 

“If you’re looking for a scroll, you must a good reason for doing so,” Urag says. “Tell me why you’re looking for one. Tell me, and maybe I _won’t_ toss you into sea for breaking into the college and disturbing my books, _and_ my rest.”

Lumen lowers her head, a little embarrassed that she was so easily figured out. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

With a sigh, Lumen gives in and tells him everything. Well-- _almost_ everything. She tells him that she is the Dragonborn, and when she was denied entry to the college, she broke in. But for good reason! The fate of the world is at risk! And she needs to find an Elder Scroll to read it at a rip in time that exists at the top of the Throat of The World, so that she can learn a Shout to help her defeat Alduin. She ends her confession by bracing herself for a blast of lightning that is surely to come her way, because even though she’s been to the mountain, and talked to a dragon, it all still sounds like bullshit to her, and surely the old Orc will feel the same.

He is quiet for some time, staring into nothing as he mulls over what she just said. Finally, he stands with a grunt. “I’ll bring you everything we have on them,” he says. “But it’s not much, so don’t get your hopes up. It’s mostly lies, leavened with rumor and conjecture.” He vanishes behind one of the walls that surrounds the center of the library, and Luka darts out from behind it, running across the library and whispering _“I’m sorry, Miss Lumen!”_ before diving behind the other wall where Cicero is hiding.

Lumen scowls, swearing that she will give the both of them a sound beating when all of this is over.

“Here you go,” Urag says, distracting Lumen from her violent fantasies of throttling both Luka and Cicero within an inch of their lives. He places two books on the table beside her. “Don’t get anything on them, and you best leave once you’ve got the information you need. I won’t protect you if Savos decides to dump you in the Midden for being dumb enough to break into the college.” The old orc folds his arms. “And tell your three friends to stop hiding from me. I can cast detect spells, you know. They’re just embarrassing themselves at this point.”

She watches him shuffle off, presumably to go back to his quarters, content to ignore her for the rest of the night. “Three friends?” she murmurs, turning to see Cicero and Luka sheepishly leaving their hiding place.

“Cicero is sorry, sweet Lumen!” he croons, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, no doubt hoping for mercy. “I heard the Orc and hid because I was startled! I thought you would hide too!”

“And you know I’m not even supposed to be here-- but I suppose you aren’t either. Even so, Urag wouldn't have been so helpful if he saw me,” Luka says, and he does have the good sense to look pathetically apologetic.

Lumen ignores them both, her eyes scanning the room as her pointed ears twitch, straining to pick up any sound. “Urag said _three_ friends…” she whispers to them. “Where is the third?” 

“Someone is spying on us?” Luka’s soft, boyish face pinches into a fearsome scowl, and in that moment, Lumen finally understands why Cicero seems to like him so much. His oddly sweet, submissive nature gives way to something dark and vicious. He whispers an incantation and a fire spell ignites in both palms, the flames lapping at the cuffs of his robes as he prepares to face the intruder.

“Who’s there?” Cicero demands, his hands reaching for his daggers as Lumen stands and does the same. If it’s a student they can easily scare them off, but it won’t be so easy to spook one of the more seasoned mages that teach at the college. However, she can’t imagine one of them would be sneaking around and eavesdropping.

A tall, robed Altmer steps out of the shadows from the adjacent room. He wears a sneer typical of one born and bred to believe he is superior to all others. “That was a very interesting tale you spun for the old Orsimer,” the Thalmor drawls. “Claiming to be Dragonborn, of all things. That’s just as bad as openly worshipping Talos, in my opinion.” His golden eyes sweep across Luka and Cicero, unconcerned that both men are prepared to attack at any moment.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” she says slowly. The husky, hungry rasp in her voice has Cicero’s lips curling into a wicked grin. He knows exactly what she intends to do with the Altmer. She had been tempted to hunt down the snarky mage that kept her from entering the college, but _this_ \-- this is so much better. Thalmor are always fun to kill, and she doubts anyone at the college will care too much when he goes missing.

The Thalmor smirks at her. “There has been a rumor spreading about a _Bosmer_ Dragonborn, and I see that you have taken advantage of it. I can't say I blame you. The Nords are a simple, gullible lot, living their lives worshipping their false god Talos and obsessing over legends." His smile vanishes, and he looks at her with those cold, implacable eyes. "I don't believe a word of it. You are no more blessed by the Divines than I am, and I wonder, little Bosmer, how many Nords did you spread your legs for to earn such a title?"

Lumen doesn't have time to respond, or to even feel insulted, she is momentarily blinded by a flash of green light. When her vision clears, she watches the Thalmor fall backwards, his body as stiff as a board. "What--" she gasps, turning to Luka.

Luka's nostrils flare as he inhales sharply through his nose, the paralysis spell still glimmering in his hand. "I am sorry, Miss Lumen," he says, his voice stiff with anger. "But he was being _very_ rude."

"Cicero must agree," he growls. "The churl is lucky to still have a tongue after speaking to you like that."

"It's not the first time I've been insulted by an Altmer," Lumen says, and she doubts it will be the last. But it is rather sweet of Cicero and Luka to be offended on her behalf. She steps over the fallen Thalmor, her feet on either side of his body as she looks down at him. "You really should've kept your nose out of my business. I _am_ the Dragonborn, whether you believe it or not. But more than that, I'm the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood," she says, grinning at the look of surprise in his eyes. "And _you_ , good sir, are going to die."

"It looks like we'll be visiting the Midden after all," Luka chirps. "The paralysis spell should last for a while, but don't worry, he'll be able to feel everything as long as the spinal cord stays intact."

"Good," Lumen says, her eyes boring into the Thalmor's. "You know, the last time I had a Thalmor at my mercy I disemboweled him, but he had the audacity to die before I was finished playing." She nudges the paralyzed Altmer with her foot. "You may have known him, his name was Rulindil."

Recognition lights in the Thalmor's eyes. "It seems like the name is familiar to him, at least," Cicero laughs. "I wonder if they were close."

"I hope so, because he'll be joining him in the Void soon," Lumen says, a cruel grin etching across her lips. "But not too soon, it's been so long since I've had a proper playmate. I'd like to spend some time with this one. Hopefully he will last longer than Rulindil did."

"I’ll make sure he does, Miss Lumen,” Luka says. “I’m not much of a healer, necromancers seldom are, but I do know a thing or two about keeping a victim alive and conscious.”

“Good to know.” Lumen grabs the two books Urag left for her, making a mental note to return them later. He was decent to her. He didn’t have to help her, but he did. Otherwise she’d not bother to return the books at all. She’ll definitely send them by courier, though. Lumen doesn’t plan to visit this wretched, little town again. 

“Will we be undisturbed in the Midden?” Cicero asks, grinning down at the Thalmor. “Cicero would hate it if we were interrupted.”

“No one ever goes down there,” Luka says. “There’s even a tunnel that will lead us outside to the sea, so we don’t have to sneak through the college to get out.”

“Perfect,” Lumen says, rather pleased to have collected information on the Elder Scrolls and a Thalmor victim all in the same night. If the Divines have ways of blessing their followers, then maybe Sithis can perform a few miracles of his own. Lumen doesn’t know for certain. What she does know is that she’ll be thanking him by sending him a new soul before dawn. “Let’s get to work, boys.”

* * *

Luka leads them down to the Midden, and to what he says is an Atronach Forge. The Thalmor is laid out in the center of the forge, encircled by candles, and at his feet there is an altar littered with the scattered remnants of animal bones. It reminds Lumen of a Black Sacrament. The only thing missing is the Nightshade.

“His name is Ancano,” Luka explains, his fingers curling around a stream of eerie green light as he alters his paralysis spell, as per Lumen’s request, giving the Altmer control of his voice, and nothing else. “He’s the Thalmor Advisor to the Arch-Mage. He arrived a few months before I was expelled.”

“I’ll have you know that they will come looking for me!” Ancano shouts, struggling fruitlessly against the binds of the spell. “My absence will be noticed!”

“Noticed, yes.” Cicero grins down at the helpless elf. “But not missed.”

“When and _if_ they do find you, they will assume you tried to summon an atronach and died horribly as a result,” Luka says, cheerful as ever. “One should always be cautious when summoning creatures from Oblivion.”

“I’ll kill you all!” he snarls. “You won’t get away with this!”

“Oh, he said it!” Cicero exclaims, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Cicero _loves it_ when they say that!”

Lumen lowers herself to her knees, her legs on either side of Ancano. “We _will_ get away with this,” she says, roughly patting his cheek. “We’ll be miles away before anyone notices you're missing.”

Ancano's gaze flits between the three assassins, his chest rapidly rising and falling with each panicked breath. "All right," he says, nervously wetting his lips. "What is it that you want? Money? Information? I have contacts at the Thalmor Embassy. I can get you anything you want. Just name it and it is yours."

"Oh, _lovely_. We've progressed from threats to bargaining," Lumen says, laughing softly at the look on Ancano's face. "The Thalmor are all the same. A bunch of heartless murderers in their own right, and yet they can never seem to believe that someone would kill them for the simple pleasure of the act. They always think I want something."

“Don’t be stupid!" Ancano snaps. “Everyone wants something!”

"True," Lumen says, gently tracing the flat of her blade across his jaw line. "Unfortunately for you, my needs are quite simple, and attempting to bargain with me will do you no favors.” The blade of her dagger probes between his lips, tapping against his teeth and prompting him to open his mouth, if only to spare him the pain and humiliation of having his teeth broken. She jabs the inside of his cheek, drawing the slightest of whimpers from the seasoned Thalmor. 

“He seems very concerned with what you want, sweet Listener,” Cicero comments. “How thoughtful.”

Lumen grins down at the Thalmor. “Well since you’re so curious, the first thing I _want_ to do is to carve a smile across your pretty face,” she says, reveling at the fear in his eyes. “Now hold still.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ancano. May he rest in pieces. :3 The Dark Brotherhood has just unknowingly saved the mages of Winterhold from a world of trouble, haven’t they? And they didn’t even get paid!
> 
> I struggled with this chapter because I don’t particularly care for this part of the questline. It’s a bit dull, to be honest. So I tried to make it fun for me to write. Hopefully it is an enjoyable read as well! I know a lot of you are eager to see how Lumen reacts to Cyril. They will meet in the next chapter! I promise! :)


	27. A Feverish Interlude

Lumen’s return to Dawnstar Sanctuary is not the happy occasion she hoped it would be. She is tired and cold, and she is not at all prepared for what awaits her in the loft where the Night Mother’s Shrine is. The area is surprisingly crowded, more so than usual, anyway. Babette is speaking to the two new recruits she told Lumen about previously. One is a short, curvy Breton woman, and the other--

Lumen sucks in a deep breath and holds it as her eyes sweep across the tallest, palest, Altmer she's ever seen. Cyril the _Altmer_ Vampire-- a detail Babette neglected to share when she told Lumen about him. But Lumen should have known better. She should've recognized the name as Altmeri, but she was so wrapped up in her own thoughts she hadn't paid his name any mind.

Babette steps forward, her expression wary. "Listener? There's no need to look upset," she says lightly. "These are the new recruits you asked me to bring, remember?"

Cicero murmurs something to Luka, and Lumen feels a flare of magic behind her. She is no mage, but after being around magic users for so long, and having magic used against her so often, she learned to sense its pull on the air. No doubt Cicero and Luka mean to restrain her if she attempts to attack their new brother. Cicero, the ever loyal Keeper, would not stand idly by and allow his Listener to break a tenet. Although, it is a bit insulting that he thinks she is so unrestrained.

"I remember," she says stiffly. "You just didn't tell me he was one of _them_."

"What?" Babette asks, sounding ostensibly offended. "I thought you didn't have a problem with vampires."

"I don't have a problem with vampires," Lumen says, rubbing her forehead and wishing her head would stop pounding. "Really, Babette-- how could you bring an Altmer _here_?"

"Oh, for the love of--" Babette bites her tongue, but she locks Lumen in a withering glare. "He's not a Thalmor!"

"Mistress," Cyril's deep voice cuts through Lumen’s outrage. He steps forward and dips into a graceful bow. "You needn't worry about my affiliations. I hold no love for the Thalmor. I am loyal to Namira, I am loyal to Sithis, and--" his burning, immortal eyes meet hers, "--I will be loyal to you, my Listener, if you'll have me."

The fact that an Altmer is calling her 'mistress' and pledging his loyalty to her is _hilarious_. She wishes she had the energy to laugh. Lumen is close to telling him that he can take his loyalty and shove it, when a cool, ethereal hand clasps the back of her neck. It is a gesture of comfort, and a gentle warning. Mother expects better of her. Mother expects her to be accepting. The Night Mother is mother to all, and she does not judge her children by their race or gender, but by their actions, and her Listener must do the same.

"My apologies," Lumen says quickly. "I didn't mean to be so rude." The pressure on her neck vanishes, a sign that the Night Mother is satisfied. _Hopefully_. With nothing left to say, and a headache that only seems to be getting worse, Lumen nods to the group. "We'll talk later," she says, and then swiftly leaves the room. Behind her, she can hear Cicero cheerfully introducing himself to the newest recruits, giving Lumen a few moments alone to collect herself.

The silence and privacy of her bedroom is a welcome change from being around Cicero and Luka for so many days. Not that she minds their company, but she needs her alone time as well. Unfortunately, Cicero does not quite grasp the concept of alone time, so Lumen has to take what she can get. She sits on her bed and begins the slow process of removing her leather armor, eager to bathe and to sleep for as long as she possibly can. Her body is sore, her head is throbbing and she's sweaty despite traveling in such frigid conditions.

True to her race, she does not often fall ill, but she still knows the signs. How stupid for the Dragonborn to get sick when she has so much to do! Lumen kicks a boot off, then yanks off the other, tossing it into the far corner of her room. "Gods damnit!"

"What, pray tell, did that boot do to you?" Cicero asks, pushing the bedroom door shut.

Lumen frowns, unreasonably annoyed to have her solitude disturbed. "I don't feel well," she tells him. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"Oh." His voice is odd, and there's a small element of disgust in it before he recovers. "You are-- you are becoming ill?"

"Yes," she says, drawing the word out and staring at Cicero, who looks horrified. "It's probably just a cold. Why are you acting so weird?"

He heaves a sigh. "Cicero cannot tend to Mother if he falls ill--"

"I doubt the Night Mother can catch a cold, Cicero. She's dead, remember?"

Cicero scowls at her for that comment and rests his hands on his hips. "Cicero knows that, but it would still be disrespectful to sneeze on her corpse, would it not? And now Cicero has to decide if he is to avoid you or tend to you."

Lumen resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Do whatever you feel is best," she sighs, too exhausted to pretend she isn't insulted. “You’re the Keeper, first and foremost, and my-- _whatever_ , second.”

“Ooh, touchy,” he purrs. “You are awfully sensitive when you’re feeling ill. Wait-- no-- that’s a lie. You are _always_ sensitive.”

“I am not,” she snaps, unbuckling her gauntlets. Determined to not look at the smug smile that is undoubtedly creeping across Cicero’s face. “My head hurts, and you’re not helping matters.”

Cicero chuckles. “Whiny too,” he says, settling down on the bed beside her and removing her gauntlets. “Well, I suppose your _whatever_ will risk becoming ill in order to take care of you.”

“What about Mother?” Lumen asks weakly, feeling a bit mollified now that Cicero is helping her out of her armor.

“Cicero will figure something out,” he says, his deft fingers quickly undoing every strap and catch of her armor. “The Night Mother and the Listener will not go uncared for under Cicero’s watch.”

“Thanks.” Lumen gives him a weak smile. “I don’t know what to do about Cyril, and I didn’t even say hello to-- um, what’s her name?”

“Eola,” Cicero tells her. “She’s very nice, as is Cyril. Perhaps it is time for you to accept that there are some decent Altmer out there in the world.” He pushes Lumen’s armor from her shoulders, leaving her in the thin linens she wears beneath.

Lumen groans. “I won’t kill him, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says irritably. “I have more self-control than that. But I don’t have to like him.”

“That is fair, even Cicero has had brothers and sisters he was not particularly fond of,” he says as his long, nimble fingers comb her hair away from her sweaty brow. “Still, you may eventually grow to like him.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Lumen mutters.

* * *

The next day brings forth another wave of misery for Lumen; a pounding head, a congested nose, and a cough that wracks her entire body. Sleep is something she desperately wants, but the sweet bliss of unconsciousness is constantly chased away by a bout of coughing or sneezing.

“You look dreadful,” Babette comments. The little vampire bustles into the Listener’s room, carrying a tray of potions. Foul tasting potions if their green color is anything to judge by. She sets the tray on the dresser, and then uncorks one of the tiny bottles and brings it to Lumen. “Drink this, it will help ease some of your symptoms.”

“I was hoping for a cure,” Lumen says, her voice little more than a rasp. She drinks the potion as quickly as she can, her nose wrinkling as the foul tasting concoction burns its way down her throat.

Babette laughs softly. “If you want a miracle cure perhaps you should visit a Temple of Kynareth. All I can do is mix potions to ease your symptoms while the cold runs its course.”

“That tastes terrible,” Lumen says, handing the empty bottle to Babette.

“Too bad,” Babette says, then turns her attention from a scowling Lumen to a fretful Cicero. “Don’t look so worried, Keeper. She’ll be fine. Just make sure she takes her potions and drinks plenty of water.”

“No,” Lumen murmurs. “I can take care of myself. Cicero, you should go. I don’t want you to catch this misery.”

Babette quickly leaves the room, eager to let the Keeper and the Listener have their privacy in case their debate turns into an argument. Cicero sits down on the bed next to Lumen, he offers her a small smile, but it does not ease the poorly hidden concern in his eyes. “Dearest Babette said it is unlikely that any of us will fall ill. Luka and I were around you for days and we are well. Your elven grippe is not likely to affect anyone in the Sanctuary. Cyril may have been at risk but, well, vampires do not have to worry about mortal illnesses.”

“How are he and Eola settling in?” Lumen asks, letting her eyes slip closed when Cicero begins to trace nonsensical patterns across her feverish skin.

“Fairly well,” Cicero says, his fingers paying special attention to a small scar along Lumen’s jaw; a scar given to her years ago by a rather territorial mockingbird. “He and Arnbjorn have been engaging in some of the most fierce scowling sessions Cicero has ever seen. But there has been no bloodshed as of yet. And Eola has been very helpful in the kitchen, although Nazir seems reluctant to let her do any cooking.”

"Why?"

Cicero hums thoughtfully, something he often does when he's wishing to word something in a way that will not offend. "She is a priestess of Namira, remember? They practice cannibalism as a way to worship their goddess."

"I doubt a priestess would feed _special meat_ to the uninitiated," Lumen murmurs, though she does make a mental note to speak with Eola about her appetites. It's one thing if she wants to practice cannibalism on her own time, but she can't go around eating Dark Brotherhood marks. If word got out that the Brotherhood is full of cannibals, it might be bad for business.

"Probably not, but you know how territorial Nazir is about the kitchen." Cicero pulls the blankets around Lumen's shoulders. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes," Lumen says. "Though I may drown in my own mucus, at least I'll be nice and warm."

Cicero wrinkles his nose, and a knock on the door distracts him before he can make a comment to Lumen's rather colorful complaint. "Ah, come in!" he croons.

The door opens just enough to let Luka peer into the room. "Am I interrupting? I can come back later," he says.

"Nonsense! Cicero did ask you to come by." The Keeper pushes away from the bed and straightens the wrinkles from his motley. He turns to Lumen and says, "Cicero asked Luka to keep an eye on you while I tend to my duties."

Lumen groans, it's bad enough that she cannot breathe through her nose and she's fairly certain something died in her mouth, but she's had too many curious visitors ever since word got out that the Listener had fallen ill. The only siblings that haven't invaded her privacy are Cyril and Eola, no real surprise there, and Arnbjorn. Even Nazir came by earlier to comment on how terrible she looked. "I appreciate it, but I would prefer to die in peace, if you don't mind."

"This is for my own peace of mind," Cicero says, turning on his heel and striding out of the room, leaving Lumen and Luka alone.

"Sorry to intrude, Miss Lumen, but Cicero is very concerned and--"

"It's fine," Lumen cuts him off, too tired and too ill to listen to his babbling. "Just be quiet so I can sleep."

Luka takes a seat at the small table, which is currently stacked with books and an odd assortment of pilfered trinkets. "Of course, Miss Lumen, I will be as quiet as a mouse," he says, nervously fidgeting with his robe before turning his attention to the books on the table.

"Thanks." Lumen rolls over, turning her back to Luka. It doesn't take her long to drift to sleep, the soporific effect of Babette's potion finally easing her into a drug-induced slumber.

* * *

Her bedroom is dim and blessedly quiet when she wakes. By the look of the candles, more than three hours have passed before a bout of coughing jarred her from her slumber. Lumen untangles herself from the mass of sheets and blankets heaped upon her bed, suddenly hot and uncomfortable.

"Can I get you anything, Miss Lumen?"

Lumen ceases her thrashing at the sound of Luka’s voice. "No," she rasps, and then piles her pillows against her headboard, hoping that remaining upright might help with the unmoving clog in her nose.

Luka watches her for a moment, his fingers drumming against his knee before he grabs a book the table and steps over to the bed. "May I join you?" he asks eagerly.

An odd request to make of someone who surely has the plague, but Lumen shrugs and scoots over to give Luka room to sit next to her. "You're a brave man," she says, patting the empty spot on the bed. "I am utterly disgusting right now. I'm surprised you even agreed to be in the same room with me."

The bed dips as Luka settles down next to her, with _Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls_ in his lap. "Believe me, Miss Lumen, I have seen and smelled far worse than you," he says. "You are really quite pleasant, even in this condition. Though I do wish I could do something to ease your illness, but since I can't, I decided I would try to ease your burdens instead." He taps the cover of the book. "I’ve read this three times so far."

"I managed to read it once," Lumen admits. "It gave me a headache."

"It’s certainly hard to follow," Luka says. "But even though the book is impossible to understand, I feel like it is your best lead. The man who wrote it, Septimus Signus, was at the college often when I first joined. He was always fascinated by the Elder Scrolls and later the Dwemer. I think he might be able to help you with your search."

Lumen smiles at the first bit of good news she heard in ages. "That's great! Where is he?"

"No idea," Luka says cheerfully. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of the man in years, but I do recall overhearing a conversation between him and our favorite librarian just before he vanished. Apparently he found some Dwemer artifact and took off north, to the ice fields just outside of Winterhold."

"I don't want to go back to Winterhold," Lumen whines. "I'll get sick again."

"I doubt the cold gave you this affliction, Miss Lumen.” Luka lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It was most likely the Thalmor that you eviscerated."

Lumen grunts, unable to argue with that logic. "So do you know this Septimus person?"

"No, not personally," Luka admits. "But I know of him. I was thinking that I could go search for him while you recuperate. If I find him, and if he has any valuable information to impart, I will let you know."

"You would do that for me?" she asks, stunned and relieved in equal measure. Never in her life did she ever desire to set foot in Winterhold, let alone its ice fields.

"Of course I would, Miss Lumen," Luka says. "I can leave tomorrow. I doubt I will be gone for very long. A week at the most."

Lumen tries to find any hint of insincerity in his voice, but she can't. "Thank you, but-- Luka, I'm not really comfortable with you going alone, maybe you ought to take someone with you."

"I'll be fine," he says, hoping to soothe her worries. "I prefer to travel alone."

"I can respect that." Lumen picks at her loose fitting tunic, the smooth material now wrinkled from being damp with sweat. "Look, I know Cicero wanted you to stay here with me, but I really need a bath, and I'd like some privacy for that. If he says anything, just tell him I ordered you out, okay?"

"Yes, Miss Lumen," Luka says, making no effort to argue. He stands up, clutching the book to his chest. "Should I send Cicero in to help you?"

"I think I can manage a bath all on my own," Lumen mutters, making no effort to mask her annoyance. She's sick; not helpless.

Luka nods and leaves the room, pulling her door shut with a soft click. Once alone, blissfully _alone_ , Lumen breathes a deep sigh, which unfortunately triggers another coughing fit. A few choice expletives later, she finally extracts herself from her blankets and stands on weak legs. Lumen wobbles slightly as she walks, and stops near her table, placing her hand on it for support. She didn't realize how hungry she was until she started to move around, and she promises to get something to eat once she's had a proper bath. With clumsy fingers she tugs at the knotted drawstring of her linen trousers, but stops when she hears a knock on her door.

"What?" she snaps, irritated at having her privacy invaded for the umpteenth time. The door opens, revealing Arnbjorn on the other side, which brings forth a wave of strange, dizzying emotions. Her stomach flutters a little, and while it's not quite the leap it does when she sees Cicero after a long time apart, it's enough to distract her fever-addled mind. "So you've finally come to gawk at me, hmm?" she says, trying like the Void to sound as casual as she possibly can.

"Not much to gawk at," Arnbjorn says with a smirk. "You look like shit, tidbit."

If Lumen had the ability to push air through her nose, she would snort at his comment, as it is, all she can do is cough in response. "Wow, thanks," she grumbles. "Is there a point to this interruption? You're delaying my bath."

Arnbjorn chuffs a laugh. "You must be feeling terrible if that's all it takes to rile you." He steps toward her, stopping a mere foot away. "How _are_ you feeling, by the way?" he asks his voice a little softer than before.

Lumen lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "I've felt better, but I've certainly felt worse. I'm not going to die, despite what Cicero may think."

He nods, his eyes lingering on the broken fragments of a soul gem scattered across the cluttered table. "The clown wouldn't want me mentioning this, but you need to know," he begins, finally turning his gaze back to her. "When you're feeling up to it, you need to do-- uh, what you do. You know, the Listening. We're fresh out of contracts and it would mean a lot to me if you got that blood-sucker out of the Sanctuary for a while. I figure the best way to do that is to give him some work."

Now it's Lumen's turn to laugh, though it sounds like more of a wheeze. "You really don't like him, do you?" she asks. "Why do you have a problem with him, but not Babette?"

"Babette isn't a pompous ass. You know what he said when he first laid eyes on me? ‘I didn't know you had a dog,'" Arnbjorn says, in the worst possible mockery of Cyril's Altmeri accent. "And the comments only got worse from there on out."

Lumen rubs her hand across her face. She's in no mood to deal with any familial drama, but she supposes that's only one of her many duties as Listener. "All right, I'll Listen and I'll give him a contract, but _after_ my bath. I don't want Mother or anyone else to see me like this."

The tension eases from Arnbjorn's shoulders. "Thanks, and for what it's worth, you don't look like shit. You look like you feel like shit."

"There's a difference?"

"Yes," he says, reaching for her and gently grabbing her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "You're deathly pale. It's enough to make _me_ worry, tidbit."

"Maybe you're coming down with something. You're obviously feverish if you're worried about my well-being."

His thumb gently brushes across the divot of flesh between her lip and chin before he pulls away. "Possibly," he says, and then awkwardly clears his throat. "Anyway-- um, I finished your new armor. You can come try it on when you're feeling up to it."

“Oh, thanks. I’m curious to see what it looks like.”

“Yeah, well, focus on getting better first. The armor will be there when you’re ready,” he says, preferring to look at some far off place on the wall, rather than at her. “Do you need anything?”

“Honestly? Some alone time. Cicero has either been here with me or convincing our siblings to babysit me. It’s sweet, but I’d like at least an hour to myself if I can manage it.”

“I think I can help you with that, tidbit.” Arnbjorn offers her a small smile. “Feel better,” he says, before quickly leaving the room, and leaving Lumen to her thoughts.

* * *

After a long, hot soak in the tub, Lumen is starting to feel more like herself again. Her muscles are sore from fever and from lying in bed for so long, and they twinge in protest when she dresses. But after being sick and idle for nearly a day, it feels good to do something for herself. She hates being weak and helpless, and she _really_ hates for her siblings to feel as if they need to wait on her hand and foot. Granted, Cicero's doting is really rather sweet and she does enjoy it in small doses, but Arnbjorn's obvious concern is downright confusing.

"Don't read so far into it," she mutters to herself as she inspects her appearance in the mirror. She is wearing her usual attire; soft breeches, an over-sized tunic, and a leather belt cinched around her waist. She looks as she always does, but only if she ignores the unhealthy pallor of her skin and the dark circles beneath her eyes. "He just wants a favor, that's the only reason he's being so nice."

Despite her weak lies, she won’t deny that a small, semblance of friendship has grown between them. But between Cicero's seedy innuendos, and the strange way that Arnbjorn looks at her, and the way her stomach jumped when she saw him-- Well, it's just too confusing. She never thought she and Arnbjorn would be able to speak without fighting, let alone become friends. But whatever is growing between them now is as confusing as it is terrifying. It's nothing like what she and Cicero have, but it's certainly not _just_ friendship, either. She knows it cannot be anything more than lust. But it's definitely all in _her_ mind. Just a figment of her imagination. There's no way Arnbjorn would want to…

She shakes her head, determined to ignore these distracting thoughts for now. After pulling a thick, wool shawl around her shoulders, she begins her walk through the Sanctuary's chilly corridors. Perhaps she's merely suffering from a delirium caused by her fever, but the Sanctuary feels larger now. The hallways seem endless, and Mother feels so very far away.

Lumen leans against the wall for support, giving herself a moment to rest. Damn it. This malady is more severe than she previously thought. If she had any sense at all she would give up and go back to bed. But regardless of Arnbjorn's issues with Cyril, Lumen _does_ need to Listen. The Brotherhood can't function if she doesn't provide contracts, and it's generally a bad idea to keep a bunch of homicidal maniacs cooped up for long amounts of time. They all need something to do, and someone to kill.

After a moment, Lumen feels steady enough to walk the rest of the way through the twisting corridors of the Sanctuary, and to the overlook where Mother rests. However, the overlook is Cicero's favorite haunt, and he is busy replacing the candles to Mother's shrine when he notices Lumen.

"What in the Void are you doing out of bed?" Cicero asks, rushing to Lumen's side.

"I couldn't sleep," she tells him. "And I need to see Mother."

"You are swaying back-and-forth like a sapling in a strong wind!" he snaps, wrapping his arm around her waist and tugging, hoping to guide her back to their room. "You are hardly in any condition to do anything other than _sleep_."

"I can't!" Lumen struggles against Cicero's strong grip. "If I fall asleep I wake myself up coughing or sneezing. I feel useless. And a little birdie told me that we're out of contracts--"

"A little birdie," Cicero snorts. "Very well, Cicero understands. But once you Listen, you are going back to bed."

"Yes, sir," Lumen says, grinning at the look on Cicero’s face. "After I Listen, I'm yours to command."

Cicero sighs dramatically. "That would be so much more enticing if you didn't look as if you were on death's doorstep," he says, and leads her closer to the Night Mother. "Do Cicero a favor and try not to cough or sneeze on Mother. She has just been oiled."

"I will do my best," Lumen says. She sits on the rug placed in front of the Night Mother's coffin. While Mother has made it abundantly clear that she will not have her Listener kneeling in front of her, Lumen hopes Mother won't mind her sitting. Mother's presence always makes Lumen a little dizzy, and she's not certain she would be able to remain standing in her weakened state.

"Hello, Mother," Lumen says. "Have you heard any prayers lately?"

 _"Three children have prayed to their Mother,"_ the Night Mother says, her sweet, intoxicating voice filling Lumen with love and warmth, offering her a brief respite from the pain of mortal illness. _"The first two may be carried out by any of my children, but you are to see to the last."_

"Of course, Mother," Lumen breathes. "I will do as you ask." The first two contracts Mother tells her about are pretty normal Dark Brotherhood fare; a jilted husband wants his wife's lover killed, and a greedy landowner wants his neighbor killed so he can take over his lands. The catch is that his death must look like an accident. Lumen writes all the details down. Names, meeting places, and anything else her siblings will need to know in order to fulfill their contract.

Mother falls silent, and Lumen, eager to know what special contract the Night Mother has for her Listener, asks, "And the third, Mother?"

_"You have been asked for by name, my daughter. When you are well enough to travel, you are to go to Karthspire and speak with Madanach. He has a job for you."_

Lumen could scream, but she holds it in, knowing Mother will not tolerate any argument. But, by the fucking Void, what could Madanach possibly want so badly that he would use the Black Sacrament to get her attention? The Forsworn are perfectly capable of doing their own killing! Surely they don't need her help that badly. "Yes, Mother," Lumen says stiffly. "I will go as soon as I am able."

The Night Mother’s presence leaves her, and Lumen reels when the ache in her muscles comes roaring back. Before she can regain control of herself, Cicero is beside her, helping her up and murmuring soothing words until she is steady on her feet. “That’s it, you are going back to bed,” he says, leading her from the overlook. “Here--” he takes the parchment with the two contracts scribbled on it from her hands. “Cicero will deliver this to Nazir for you, but only after I make sure you are _in bed_ and that you will stay there.”

“Fine,” Lumen sighs, allowing Cicero to lead her to her bedroom.

"At least you are being reasonable for once," Cicero says, glancing down at the parchment. "Er, Lumen, there are only two contracts here. You asked Mother about a third. I heard you."

“The third is specifically for me,” Lumen tells him as she walks through her bedroom door, and weaves toward her bed. "When I am well, I have to go to Karthspire and speak to Madanach. It seems the Forsworn king has a job for me."

“What? Really? That is odd." Cicero sits down beside her, absentmindedly twisting a lock of her hair around his finger. “Cicero thought the Forsworn would not need to hire the Dark Brotherhood. Not that I am disappointed, mind you, but I figured they would prefer to do their own killing.”

“Same here,” she murmurs. “But maybe this is something special. Either way, I cannot wait to be bossed around by some old fart in a loin cloth. It really makes my day.”

“It gets you off, does it?” Cicero asks, laughing.

“You have no idea,” Lumen says, her voice monotone. “Still, it’s not so bad. I’m sure that whatever Madanach wants me to do, it’ll be interesting.”

* * *

After a full night of rest, Lumen doesn’t necessarily feel great. But better. _Much_ better. The cough is beginning to subside, and she can breathe out of her nose-- _somewhat_. But more than that, she is able to move about the Sanctuary and do things for herself with relative ease. She’s always been able to bounce back from illness and injury fairly quickly, and she always thought it was something inherently Bosmeri, but perhaps it has more to do with the dragon’s blood flowing through her veins.

The morning had been a fairly decent one; breakfast with the family, conversation with Nazir, and Lumen blatantly ignoring the Altmer in her home. But when Luka told Cicero of his plan to search for Septimus Signus, Cicero became highly concerned.

"Cicero does not think it is such a good idea for you to go alone," he says, looking up at the tall, skinny mage. "It is very nice of you to do this for the Listener, but you should take someone with you."

"I know what I’m doing," Luka says, drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders in a surprising show of defiance. "I've been there before. When I was at the college I used to go there to collect Ice Wraith teeth."

"Would you mind fetching some for me while you are there?" Babette asks. “I would get them myself, but I detest the cold.”

Lumen and Babette have been lingering near the alchemy table, watching the spectacle with unhidden interest. It's not often that Cicero makes a fuss over someone else, and Lumen is enjoying her momentary reprieve from his attentions. And, truth be told, it is rather sweet that he's making such a big deal about Luka's safety.

"I don't mind at all," Luka says. “I think they are fun to hunt, and I don’t mind the cold. I got used to it after living in Winterhold for so long.”

Cicero grumbles something under his breath, and gives Lumen a look that tells her that he would really appreciate her support. She steps forward, casting a sympathetic smile at Luka before turning to Cicero. "Luka is doing this as a favor to me. He knows the risks," she says, trying not to laugh at the way Cicero pouts. "He's an assassin, and a very capable mage! He will be fine."

"T-thank you, Miss Lumen." Luka beams at her compliment. "I promise you, I will be fine. Cicero is just--" Luka looks down at the Keeper, and seems to wither under the shorter man's glare. "Um--"

"Over-reacting?" Lumen helpfully adds. "Acting like a mother hen?"

"Something like that," Luka says shyly.

Lumen grins at Cicero. "It's okay, Luka. It just means he likes you," she says, watching a blush spread across the young mage’s cheeks.

Luka doesn't respond to that. Instead, he smiles meekly and pulls his cloak around his shoulders. "I-- I should probably go. If I do not return in a week, just-- um, wait longer. I will be fine." He practically trips over his robe as he hurries toward the Black Door and away from Cicero's incessant worrying.

"It is always wise for assassins to travel in pairs," Cicero complains, taking off down the hallway that leads to Lumen's bedroom. "It is safer that way."

"Luka's not going to assassinate anyone. Well, he might. But even if he does, he’ll be all right," Lumen says, following along behind him. "Besides, most assassins prefer solitude."

"Cicero does not."

"I know," she says softly, then decides to change the subject away from Cicero's fear of loneliness and to something much more fun. "He likes you, by the way."

"Of course he does," Cicero sniffs, pushing the bedroom door open. "Cicero is highly likeable!"

"No, I mean he _really_ likes you," Lumen presses on, giddy that she finally has a chance to tease Cicero about something. "He likes you so much, he probably wants to see you naked."

"I do not blame him," Cicero says, refusing to give in to her innuendo. "Cicero has a nice figure. It should be admired by all."

Lumen laughs, and decides to try a different tactic. She grabs Cicero by the shoulders and pushes him down on her bed, pouncing on him from behind.

"Lumen," Cicero gasps, writhing beneath her. "You are sick, sweet Lumen. We cannot--"

"Hush," she orders. "What I was trying to say, is that I doubt Luka would object if you were to throw him down on the bed, and have your wicked way with him." She rolls her hips against Cicero’s backside, and though she lacks the proper anatomy to do much in this position, the point is not lost on him. "And I--" her words are cut off when she is gripped by a coughing fit, and she pulls away from Cicero, not wishing to cough on him. When the fit subsides, she looks back to Cicero, who is sitting up and looking rather unimpressed.

"You know," he says, brushing his fingers through his tousled hair. "That was really quite exciting. Right up until you started to cough all over poor Cicero."

"I didn't cough on you," she says. "Much."

"Hmph," Cicero grunts, pulling his hat on and moving to sit on the edge of Lumen's bed. He says nothing, and a few moments of silence pass between them as Cicero makes a show of straightening the wrinkles from his motley and inspecting a loose stitch in his glove.

"So," Lumen says, drawing the word out. "What do you think of my theory?"

"It is an interesting theory," he says slowly. "Preposterous, but interesting."

"It's not preposterous! Luka totally has a crush on you!" Lumen scoots closer to him. "I think it's cute."

"Speaking of crushes, how are things going with our resident werewolf?" Cicero purrs, drawing the focus of the conversation away from himself. "I know he was the one who came to you to complain about our lack of contracts. But Cicero thinks it was just an excuse to check on you. Our brother is terribly transparent in his motivations."

"I don't know. Things are well, I suppose. But it's all a bit confusing." Now it's Lumen's turn to fidget with her clothing. "Would you really not care if something happened between us?"

"Cicero has told you before that he does not mind if you wish to pursue other lovers," he says calmly. "And, really, watching you and Arnbjorn dance around each other is a bit maddening."

Lumen frowns in confusion. "But, even if something did happen, it wouldn't mean that I'm no longer interested in you," she tells him. "You know that, right?"

"Cicero knows that," he says, smiling broadly. "You once told Cicero that he was your favorite, has that changed?"

"No," Lumen says, smiling shyly. "You'll always be my favorite."

"Cicero will never grow tired of hearing that." He snuggles up to Lumen, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head on her breasts. "For what it is worth, you are Cicero's favorite pillow."

"Thanks," she says, laughing softly. But her laughter brings forth another coughing fit, and she reluctantly pulls away from Cicero.

Cicero sighs. "And yet another nice moment has been ruined by your wretched, elven plague."

"Sorry," she rasps, her voice hoarse from coughing so much.

"Come on," he says, urging her to lie down. "Get some rest. We will continue this discussion when you are feeling better, and when you are less likely to cough and sneeze all over poor Cicero. It is definitely killing the mood." Despite his complaints, he smiles warmly at her, and she knows he is more concerned about her condition than disgusted by it.

"Fine" she says, finding no reason to argue as she curls up in the blankets. "When I am better we will talk more about your admirer, and you will _not_ dodge the subject."

"As you wish, sweetness," Cicero says, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "But you must get better first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit silly and fluffy, but the plot progressed a little bit, so I guess that makes the fluff okay. (Don't worry, the angst-fest will continue in future chapters.) As if poor Lumen doesn't have enough to do in between Dark Brotherhood issues, Dragonborn issues, and Malrian issues. Now Madanach has to pester her once again! The poor girl cannot catch a break.
> 
> I know her initial meeting with Cyril was a little anti-climatic. No worries. She's not done with him yet. XD Not by a long shot.
> 
> I was on the fence with Luka crushing on Cicero. I had planned it from the beginning, but I'd been a little uncertain about proceeding with it. But a few of you expressed interest in a Luka/Cicero ship! So we'll see if it sails. :) That being said, I've honestly been a little worried about writing an open relationship. I was afraid I'd catch some flack for it. But many of you seem to be enjoying it, so I can only assume that means I am doing a good job of building things up? I hope so, anyway.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! And feel free to leave me feedback or critique, either in a comment or a private message. I love hearing for you all, and it helps me when I know what I'm doing right and what I could improve on. :) So don't be shy!


	28. The Listener's Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost 50% smut. Warnings for: femdom, light bondage, orgasm denial, and knifeplay.

Lumen stares at the Deathbell blossom in the palm of her hand. The deadly flower was cultivated in Babette's little indoor garden, along with many other toxic plants. Lumen has always liked Deathbell. Maybe it's because her mother would dry them in her alchemy room. The ceiling would be lined with purple flowers, filling the room with the sweet aroma of pollen and the virulent tang of poison.

"Hey, I need that." Babette's voice stirs Lumen from her memories, and the little vampire snatches the blossom from Lumen's hand. "Sorry," she says hastily, no doubt noticing the smile fade from Lumen's face. "But I really do need this one. I don't have so many Deathbell that I can just let you run off with them."

"It's all right," Lumen says, peering curiously at Babette's work table. "I'm not trying to pilfer your alchemy ingredients."

A sly grin curls across the little vampire's lips. "You wouldn't get very far if you tried. I know where you sleep," she teases. "So, if you aren't here to steal my flowers, what are you here for? Or did you just feel like pestering me?"

"I wanted to thank you, actually," Lumen admits, stepping back and giving Babette more room to work. "For brewing those potions when I was sick. I know I complained about the taste, but I did appreciate them."

"It was no trouble, Listener." Babette glances at her, giving her a brief look over before returning to her work. "You seem much better."

"I am," Lumen says, then spends a few moments fumbling for something to say. But decides she ought to leave Babette to her work. She’s feeling a little stir-crazy after being stuck at home and sick for over a week, and she’s terribly _bored_. Luka hasn’t returned yet. Nazir took a contract and promptly left the Sanctuary, claiming he was feeling a bit rusty. Cyril and Eola have only just returned from theirs, reporting a successful kill with no witnesses. Arnbjorn is working in his forge, Cicero is mixing oils for Mother, and Babette is busy with her own projects.

Lumen has absolutely nothing to do. She's already been kicked out of Arnbjorn's forge for being a pest, and even Cicero shooed her away, claiming he couldn't concentrate with her hovering around him, and it looks as if Babette is close to doing the same. "I'll leave you to it," Lumen says. "I need to leave for Karthspire soon, so I guess I'll go pack."

She sighs as she walks down the hallway that leads to her bedroom. The damp, mossy hall is lined with doors which lead to other rooms; private rooms for the senior members of the Brotherhood, and a shared room for the initiates. The door to the initiate's quarters is open, but there is no light within. Not that Lumen is surprised. Cyril and Eola prefer the dark.

"Mistress.” Cyril appears in the doorway of the darkened room, his accented voice grating on Lumen’s nerves. Every syllable is so appallingly Altmeri. It's insulting to have this _thing_ invading her home.

"What do you want?” she asks, her voice stiff with discomfort. 

The impossibly tall vampire moves closer to her, stepping into the light of a nearby sconce. "Babette tells me you do not hold a high opinion of my race," he says casually. "I do not mind. In fact, I quite understand. But I would like it if you and I could find some common ground."

A bitter laugh escapes her. "You'd like that, would you?"

"I would. You flinch when I speak. You scowl when you see me. And now, you cannot even look at me," Cyril says, not bothering to conceal how insulted he is. "I am not like the Altmer you have known."

He has a point, and she hates him for it. She finally turns around. "You want me to look at you?" she asks, challenging him. “Fine.”

Lumen stares at him, hoping to make him as uncomfortable as she possibly can. Not like the others, he says. And yet here he stands, hair perfectly kept, even though it's a little limp and corpselike. He's even dressed like the Altmer she has known. A well tailored silk brocade over leather breeches, which are tucked into black boots that are adorned with gold filigree. But she shouldn’t judge him for his fancy clothing. Not when Cicero is so peculiar about his own. When he’s not wearing his motley, the Imperial is terribly fussy, claiming only fine, imported silk or High Rock cotton may touch his skin.

"I will leave your Sanctuary if you order me to," Cyril says. "But I hope it will not come to that.”

“I’m not unreasonable,” Lumen snaps. “I won’t cast you out unless you break a tenet.”

“I am told that if one breaks a tenet, they will incur the Wrath of Sithis. I assume that means death.” Cyril tilts his head as he regards her. “You will kill me if I break a tenet, am I correct?”

“Someone will kill you,” Lumen says casually, though the truly has no idea what the Wrath of Sithis entails. “It may not be me.” 

“Fair enough.” Cyril hold his hand out to her. “Please, mistress. Give me a chance.”

Lumen stares at the offered hand, and rather than taking it, she grabs hold of his wrist. Cyril’s expression doesn’t shift, and he doesn’t pull away from her. Lumen runs her fingers across the thin skin of his wrist, marveling at how cold he is. There is no pulse, and the veins just beneath the skin are black; unmoving and lifeless, full of rotten blood that will not flow if they are cut.

She drops his wrist. “Fine, I’ll give you a chance.”

Cyril smiles at her, his fangs shining in the torchlight. “I am not sure if Babette told you, but I was almost in the Dark Brotherhood many years ago. Sadly, it did not work out."

“Wait, what-- how is one almost in the Dark Brotherhood?” she asks, wondering why Babette failed to mention this very important detail to her. "Tell me what happened."

“Astrid approached me a few years ago, and I thought things had gone rather well,” he says, suddenly very uncomfortable. “But she revoked her offer.”

Lumen clenches her jaw, her patience wearing dangerously thin. “Tell me why.”

"I cannot say exactly why she revoked her offer, because I do not know what I did to offend her." He shrugs, and folds his arms across his chest. "Perhaps her werewolf would be able to provide you with that information. He was there."

Lumen hums in acknowledgement, uncertain of what to say about any of that. She can only assume Cyril insulted Arnbjorn, considering he’s been doing plenty of that already. But why didn’t Arnbjorn say anything to her about it? Why didn’t he tell her about his history with the vampire? Damn that man. He’s not the most talkative person she’s ever met, but it wouldn’t kill him to share important information with her.

"I suppose what happened isn't important now," she says, although she fully intends to pry the information out of Arnbjorn. Lumen takes a step away from Cyril before abruptly stopping, and though it pains her to say it, she adds, "Thank you for your honesty."

"Of course, mistress," Cyril says, dipping into a graceful bow. "I am yours to command."

 _"I am never going to get used to that,"_ Lumen muses as she heads down the hallway and back to the common area. She’ll pack later when she’s less agitated. Right now, she's got a werewolf to interrogate.

* * *

"Arnbjorn!" 

Arnbjorn had been leaning over his workbench, inspecting a newly crafted gauntlet, but at Lumen's sudden appearance and the volume of her voice, he stands up straight. "What?" he snarls, annoyed at being disturbed for a second time, and downright pissed that she managed to startle him. "I told you I was busy. Go bother someone else!"

Lumen frowns at him. "Why didn't you tell me about Cyril? He told me that he was almost part of the Brotherhood years ago!"

"That's what you came in here to yell at me about?" he asks, rubbing his forehead. "You're actually pissed off about this?"

"I'm pissed because I should be hearing this from you! Not the initiates!" The scowl on her face eases into something more hurt than angry. She takes a breath, calming herself before she speaks again. "Why didn't you say something to me?"

"I didn't want to," he admits. "You've got enough to worry about. I didn't think my very brief history with Cyril was important at all."

"It's worth mentioning, though," she mutters, scuffing her heel against the floor. She finally relaxes against the bench, letting her arms drop to her sides. "So what happened? He was pretty vague about it."

"Cyril hates werewolves," Arnbjorn says, trying to remember the incident. It had been many years before Lumen came to the Brotherhood, back when he and Astrid still had a good relationship. "I was with Astrid when she extended an invitation to him, and he seemed very reasonable. But then he saw me, realized what I was, and made some snide comments. Astrid decided she didn't want to put up with us potentially fighting and disrupting the relative peace of the Sanctuary. So she told him the deal was off and to be glad that he was able to walk away with his life."

"Should I be concerned about you two going at it?" Lumen asks.

"No," Arnbjorn says, turning to smirk at her. "Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing?"

Lumen breathes a laugh at that. "Fair enough," she admits. "I won't kill him. Even if he is a typical, snooty, Altmer prick," she says, her lips twisting into a sneer, as if the thought of leaving Cyril alive pains her. "I can put up with a prick." Her sneer turns into a smirk, and her eyes meet his. "You're kind of a prick, too."

"I've been called worse," he says, laughing.

"You really should have told me about Cyril, though," Lumen says firmly, her smile fading. "I know I'm not--" she hesitates. _'I'm not Astrid'_ is what she wants to say, Arnbjorn can hear it so clearly in his own mind. But he knows she won't openly compare herself to his dead wife. "I'm not much of a leader," she finally says. "I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm trying to do my best."

"You're right," he concedes. "I should have mentioned it."

"I'm what?" she gasps, stepping forward and placing her hand on his arm. "Oh, Arnbjorn. Say it again."

"You only get the one," he says, smirking as he shrugs her hand away. Even though the tension between them is lightened by their joking, he can't help but torment himself. _'I'm not Astrid.'_ echoes in his mind. He's been doing his level best to not even think of her. There is still so much pain and anger in his last memories of her.

Although Lumen didn't say it; it's true. She's not Astrid. She's not like her in the slightest. The elf is utterly devoid of ambition, preferring to live in the present and never thinking of the big picture. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe the Brotherhood will do well with a leader who takes things day-by-day, rather than obsessing about the future.

"Hey," Lumen's voice gets his attention, and he turns to see her poking through a pile of neatly folded armor. "Is this the new armor? Can I try it on?"

"Sure," he says hastily. "Maybe you should go get the clown. You might need some help putting it on at first. Leather armor is always a bit tight until you break it in."

"He's busy." She casts a look over her shoulder, a smirk upon her lips. "Why can't you help me?"

 _’Because it's a bad idea,’_ he very nearly says. Because Masser and Secunda are nearly full, and when that happens he will be unable to resist their call. He's too raw, too pent up, too vicious. He's little more than a tightly wound coil of bestial lust and anger, and he's fairly certain the elf is flirting with him, which is making things worse. Arnbjorn can sense her curiosity, and her own physical interest, and his inner wolf is refusing to let him ignore it.

"Come back when he's not busy, then," he says, turning away from her and staring into the fires of his forge.

"You didn't answer my question.”

"I didn't," he snaps, agitated by her presence and his own waning restraint.

A gentle touch to his arm pulls his gaze from the fire, and toward another source of heat. Lumen stares up at him, her brows knitted together in concern. “I’m only teasing you,” she says. “There’s no reason to get upset.”

He wants to tell her that there's only so much teasing a man can take, but the words never come. She's too close. Dangerously close. She's close enough that he can smell spiced wine on her breath, and the soft perfume of the soap she favors, mingled with the woodsy scent of the incense that burns at the Night Mother's shrine.

Arnbjorn tries to give her a suitable answer, but every thought in his mind comes to a screeching halt when he feels her lips upon his. He doesn't know who moved first, or who initiated the kiss, but ultimately it doesn't matter. Because her mouth is opening beneath his, and all his wolf cares about, _all he cares about_ , is that there is a warm, willing female _right there_. Said female is kissing him, and sighing when his tongue slides into her mouth. She doesn't protest when the force of his kiss backs her into his workbench, and he slips a hand under her thigh to lift her onto the bench. Her hands are clutching at the fabric of his tunic, and her legs are wrapping around his hips, pulling him even closer.

His hands brush through her hair, and graze the edge of her knife sharp ears. That brings him back to reality. _Lumen_ is kissing _him_. He has to stop this madness before it goes any further. She's not some nameless bard to be taken to bed and then forgotten about the next day. She's the Listener and, oddly enough, his friend. What if things turn out as disastrously as they did the first time? Granted, those circumstances were vastly different. But it's a risk Arnbjorn is not willing to take.

"Wait." He pulls away just enough to break the kiss, and he grabs Lumen's busy hands, keeping them from slipping inside his tunic. "Wait," he says again. "We can't."

"We can," she says, breathless from the intensity of their kisses. And he wishes she wouldn't encourage him, because he is so close to throwing her across his workbench and having his way with her. _So close_.

"Tidbit--"

"I'm saying yes, if you require clarification."

Of course she would think he needs her to clarify. He doesn't blame her, not when taking their history into account. But he can't do this. He doesn't trust himself, and he's not certain if he should trust her. "Tidbit," he says. "I'm saying no."

A look of surprise flickers across her features. "Oh," she breathes, nervously running her fingers through her hair, attempting to tame the mess he'd made out of it. “I shouldn't have done that.”

"It’s fine," he says, shrugging in an attempt to give the air of nonchalance. "I'm not upset."

Lumen awards him a half-hearted smile for his effort to diffuse the tension in the room. Her eyes briefly meet his before flicking back down to the floor. "That’s good," she says to her feet.

Arnbjorn represses a sigh, and fights the urge to step closer to her. He's not used to seeing the caustic elf act so meek. "Are _you_ upset?" he asks.

"Only at myself," she says, some semblance of strength returning to her voice. "That was stupid and careless of me, and-- I'm gonna go," she says quickly, hopping off the workbench and briskly walking from the room before Arnbjorn can even stop her.

He's not surprised at her quick exit. She has a habit of running away when things get too serious, and right now, he's grateful for it. Breathing a sigh of relief, he sits down at his writing desk, waiting for his rapidly beating heart to slow down and for the unrelenting hardness in his trousers to _go away_.

* * *

Cicero cannot remember the last time he worked so hard and got so little done. Between Lumen harassing him earlier in the day, and Eola distracting him with conversation a little later, it took poor Cicero _forever_ to mix Mother's preserving oils. But Cicero is a good Keeper and he is never distracted from his duties for long. He hums softly as he tidies the area in front of the Night Mother’s coffin. Not that he ever allows it to get dirty, but the flowers and candles need to be replaced daily, and dry wax removed from the candelabras.

Movement from the hallway catches his eye, and he turns to see Lumen stepping closer to him. "Cicero," she whispers, even though they are alone in the overlook. "I just made a huge ass out of myself, and I would really appreciate it if you made me feel better about it."

A small laugh escapes him. "What did you do this time, sweetness?"

"This time?" she hisses, offended by the implication that she often makes an ass of herself. Which she does. But the Listener's carless, abrasive manner is something he likes about her. He never knows what she's going to say or do, and even though it's not always pleasant for him, especially he is the focus of her ire, he does love watching her unleash her temper on others.

"What do you mean-- oh, never mind," she huffs. "I went to talk to Arnbjorn about-- well-- I guess what I wanted to talk to him about doesn't matter. Or maybe it does? I don't know."

"You are babbling. It seems like Luka is rubbing off on you." Cicero wraps his arm around her shoulders. "Come on, tell Cicero what has you so worked up."

"I kissed Arnbjorn," she says quickly.

"I would congratulate you on taking the initiative, but I assume things did not go as you planned."

"I didn't plan it at all," she says, her lips twisting in annoyance. "It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. But clearly it wasn’t." Lumen twirls a strand of hair around her fingers, something she does when she is upset. "He pushed me away."

"That is surprising," Cicero says. "And, at the same time, not surprising at all."

Lumen prods Cicero in his side. "Now is not the time for riddles, jester."

"It is no riddle," he says. "Our brother is quite stubborn, and Cicero can only assume that this is not the first time he has denied himself something he desperately wants.”

"I think we misjudged him," Lumen says quickly. “I don’t think he wants anything from me.”

"And I disagree."

Lumen groans. "Of course you do."

"Trying to get someone in bed is a lot like a contract," he says. "Sometimes things proceed quickly and easily, and with minimal effort. Sometimes it can take weeks, or even months. You have to learn their habits, what makes them tick, and set the trap."

"I don't want to trap him," Lumen says, and narrows her eyes at Cicero. "Are you saying you were hunting me? Because I distinctly remember being the one to initiate things."

"That is what you think, sweet Lumen," Cicero purrs. He pulls away from her, his fingers trailing across her shoulders. "Do not pretend that Cicero had no part in that dance."

"So, let me get this straight. You somehow _knew_ I'd murder an Altmer priest and then jump you?" she asks, and while her eyes are narrowed in suspicion, there is a slight smile forming on her lips.

"No," he laughs. "I could tell you were interested, but every time I took a step closer, you would take a step back. Cicero thought things would work out better if he let you determine the next move." He smiles when he remembers that first night with his pretty Listener, and how she tasted of blood and leather from a recent kill. "Cicero knew things would eventually fall into place, but he did not anticipate following you into the forest and watching you slaughter that priest, nor did he anticipate what came after."

Lumen's teeth worry at her lower lip. “You’re better at this than I am. I’ve always had a hard time reading people.”

“That is because you are too focused on the goal, rather than the details. You are quite good at figuring people out when the details actually interest you.”

“Maybe that’s why I noticed Luka's little crush before you did,” she says, her smile growing broader. 

"You _mentioned_ it before Cicero did. That does not mean you noticed it first,” he says, his lips twisting into a smirk when Lumen frowns at him.

"But you denied it when I said something about it!"

"Do you really think I would pass up on the chance to tease you?" he says, laughing at her scowl deepens.

“That’s not teasing! You were just being contrary for the sake of it!” Lumen snaps, and turns to walk away. Cicero catches her wrist to keep her from leaving the overlook. She doesn’t pull her wrist from his grasp, which surprises him, but she doesn’t look at him either. “What?” she growls.

"Cicero is sorry," he says, belatedly realizing that teasing Lumen right after she's been rejected is probably not the best idea he's ever had. He's not used to dealing with his Listener when she's in such a vulnerable state. 

“Are you?”

"I am," he says, feeling a bit wretched. Guilt is not something that often torments Cicero, but it does now. Lumen came to him, needing comfort-- which is not something he is often capable of giving. He is usually able to provide a distraction, or make her laugh, which is comfort enough for Lumen. But he did none of those things.

Lumen turns around to face him, glaring down at him. "I don't think you are."

The dangerous tone of her voice sends a shiver down his spine. She is well and truly pissed, and if Cicero had any sense at all, he would leave her be. He's always thought of himself as a very sensible man, despite everyone insisting that he is insane, but he's never been able to resist the allure of an angry woman.

He would have be completely mad not to find this a _little_ exciting. He’s seen her gut men for less than what silly, foolish Cicero has done.

"Cicero would like to make amends for his rotten behavior, if sweet Lumen will allow it," he says, wincing at the roughness of his voice. But he cannot help but be aroused by the seething rage in those golden eyes of hers. It's like being stared down by a hungry sabre cat... or a dragon.

She blinks, her scowl softening into something more curious. Something less dangerous, but no less arousing for Cicero. Her eyes flick down, realization finally dawning on her when she sees the erection straining against his trousers. "Really?" she asks, though the question is posed at his cock and not so much at him. His only saving grace is that she sounds amused.

What can he say? Every man has a weakness, and she has just discovered his. It’s certainly not the first time Lumen has been angry with him for teasing her. There’s always been a slight power struggle between them. Cicero does not desire much in the way of power or respect, but he _is_ a seasoned assassin and he was sending souls to Sithis long before Lumen ever picked up a blade. That thought is always at the edge of his mind, eating away at him every time he’s reminded of how inexperienced she is. He adores her, there's no denying that, but she does not wield her power as a proper Listener should, and it's easy to forget that she isn't just an initiate. That's not her fault, though. Astrid didn't teach her much, and perhaps Cicero is at fault, too. He was alone for so long, he wonders if he's forgotten how to be properly subordinate.

"Cicero can be good," he says, on the verge of pleading. "Cicero can be obedient."

"Those are some lofty claims from someone who has perfected the art of being a brat."

"Then permit poor, humble Cicero to prove it to you, sweet Listener.” He nervously wets his lips when he realizes that she may very well reject him. But she looks interested, which gives him courage. “Cicero is your humble Keeper. Yours to use and abuse as you see fit.”

"You won't think I'm very sweet once I'm finished with you, Keeper," she says, and that particular threat has Cicero nearly coming undone on the spot. "Follow."

Cicero pays little attention to anything but Lumen as they make their way through the hallways of the Sanctuary. Her shoulders are squared, her head held high, and he is both excited and terrified by the change in her demeanor. It is proper. It's how she _should_ be. Strong and fearless, not vulnerable and uncertain.

They are barely two steps inside Lumen's bedroom when she rounds on him. She presses her forearm across his chest and shoves him up against a wall with more strength than he thought she had. "You will not touch me until I command it. Do you understand?"

"Cicero understands," he says, struggling to keep his hands at his sides. He wants to touch her. He can feel her strength in the way she holds him against the wall. He would love to run his fingers across her body, to feel the flex of hard muscle beneath soft skin.

Lumen pulls away from him. “Get undressed, Keeper.”

“Yes, Listener,” he says, immediately untying the laces of his motley. He strips quickly, draping his clothes over a nearby chair. When he is done, he stands in front of her, baring himself to her gaze.

Her eyes roam across his naked form, pausing to take in the sight of his cock, which is hard and aching. “Good boy,” she purrs, her full lips curving into a grin.

Cicero bites back a moan when she finally touches him, her fingers skittering across his collarbone, and down his chest. He does moan when she pinches a nipple, but judging by the way her smile widens, the sound pleases her. She continues to torment him after that, soft touches around his shoulders and torso, mapping out the plains of his body, even though she already knows them by heart. Her deadly fingers move further down, past his navel, and to the aching distraction between his legs.

“You will not come until I say you can.” She draws her finger down the length of his cock. “Are we clear?”

“Of course, my Listener,” he gasps, aching for her to touch him again. Needing her to continue with this sweet, gentle torture.

Lumen smiles at that, clearly pleased with his obedience. “And you may not touch yourself at any point.”

“Yes, Listener,” he whispers. “Cicero will obey.”

“Good,” she says. “Now, undress me.”

He does as she asks without hesitation, and as eager as he is, Cicero makes short work of her clothing. After removing her tunic and breeches, he reaches for her breast band, only to have his hand slapped away.

“Not yet,” she says as she steps away. Her eyes never leave his body when she crosses the room and grabs a pillow from the bed. She tosses it on the floor in front of him, and when she sees the confusion in his gaze, she says, “I will not have my Keeper kneeling on the cold, hard floor.”

That she thought of his comfort first and foremost has Cicero’s heart pounding. It’s such a little thing, and perhaps even she doesn’t realize the significance of her action. But he does.

“ _Kneel_ , Cicero.”

The soft, confident command alone is almost enough to send him to his knees, and he is grateful for the soft pillow between him and the hard floor when he kneels before her.

Lumen cups his cheek, her thumb feathering along his sharp cheekbone. Cicero leans into her touch, eager to take whatever affection she has to offer. “If you truly wish to make amends for your rotten behavior, then I suggest you start between my legs,” she says, and while her voice is confident, there is the smallest hint of uncertainty in her eyes. They have never done this before. It’s obvious that Lumen has done this with someone else in her past, but never with Cicero. It is new territory for them both.

His hands are sliding up her thighs and to her hips, then he is pulling at her underclothes, his fingers caressing her skin as he gently tugs the fabric down. She kicks her smalls aside when Cicero frees her from them, and he leans in, rubbing his cheek along her thigh as he inches closer to her sex. He presses his lips against her folds, pleased to find her wet already. If he weren’t so focused on being good and obedient he would make a comment about how she clearly likes having him on his knees. Rather than tease her, he tentatively dips his tongue into the cleft between her legs, tasting her arousal and earning him an approving moan in return.

Feeling braver, he slides his hands up the back of Lumen’s thighs and to the focus of his attention. He parts her folds, giving him better access. A firm stroke of his tongue almost causes Lumen to lose her balance, and she grips the back of a nearby chair to keep herself upright, while her other hand cradles the back of Cicero’s head, preventing him from pulling away. Moving away from his Listener is the very last thing he wishes to do at this particular moment. Her heady taste is on his tongue, her sweet scent filling his nostrils, and her soft words of encouragement are caressing his ears. There is no where else he’d rather be.

Cicero can tell she’s getting close to her peak when her legs begin to quiver, and her breathing increases. He focuses his attention on her clit, laving it with his tongue until she’s shaking, and barely able to keep herself upright as Cicero pushes her closer to the edge. Her little whimpers of pleasure turn into a rough, low moan when she finally comes. The wooden chair creaks under the force of her grip, her legs shaking as she struggles to keep herself from falling on Cicero.

The hand at the back of his head grips his hair and tugs him away. It takes her a few moments to recover, a fact that brings Cicero no small amount of pride. “Cicero,” she breathes, almost forgetting herself and forgetting that he is still in trouble. “That was a good start, and while I haven’t forgiven you for your atrocious behavior, I am of a mind to give you a reward.” She tilts her head to the side, grinning down at him and his erection that is on the verge of being painful. “Would you like a reward?”

“Yes, my Listener,” he says, his voice wavering with need. “Very much.”

“Go lay down on the bed, then.”

Cicero follows her when she steps away from him, obeying every instruction she gives him. He waits patiently while she arranges the pillows so he can lounge comfortably. He doesn’t question her when she stretches his arms out across the headboard and ties his wrists to the bedposts with strips of linen.

“Are you comfortable?” she asks, the slightest hint of concern in her voice.

“Yes, Cicero is very comfortable, indeed.” He tests the strength of his binds. They aren’t so tight that they are uncomfortable, but he would not be able to escape them without Lumen’s help. He’s not surprised. She’s a murderer, and a bit of a sadist. She’s tied up many people in her life. The only difference between this situation and all the others is that Cicero will still be alive when Lumen is finished with him.

“Good, because we’re going to be here for a while.” She smiles wickedly at him. “I am going to torment you, and I will not stop until you can do nothing more than beg for mercy.”

Well-- _maybe_ Cicero will still be alive when she’s finished with him.

Her smile grows wider and more menacing, and Cicero is fairly certain that everyone who’s been on the receiving end of that particular smile is long dead, their throats slit and their organs removed in random order. “Are you still willing to subject yourself to my mercies, Keeper?” she asks, pleasure dripping from every word.

“Gods, yes,” he gasps, inordinately thrilled to see this side of her.

When Lumen grabs a small dagger from the nightstand, Cicero’s mouth goes dry. She would do him no lasting damage, he knows that, but it takes an intense amount of trust to allow a homicidal maniac to press a blade against one's skin. He starts when she draws the tip of the blade across his nipple. The blade only teases his flesh, never cutting him. Never hurting him. She draws it down the middle of his torso, tracing the outlines of his modest abdominal muscles before pulling the knife lower. Cicero grits his teeth, holding perfectly still as she draws the blade along the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh.

The cool blade against his skin is a stark contrast to the throbbing heat of his sex, and Lumen’s gentle touches are driving him completely _mad_. “Listener, _please_ \--”

“Hush.” The command comes quietly as she traces the blade down his other thigh, chuckling softly when the muscles within quiver with anticipation and need.

“ _Lumen_ ,” he gasps, no longer caring that he’s begging. A bead of moisture gathers at the head of his cock. Cicero bites his lip and whines, because he needs to be touched so badly. 

“Look at that,” Lumen breathes, and the blade leaves his skin. Her eyes are riveted to the fluid now dripping down the underside of his shaft. “I’m afraid you’re going to come without me ever touching you.”

“No, Listener,” he pleads. “Cicero will wait until you say he can.” Although he is not certain how much longer he can hold off. He is surely going to die if she doesn’t touch him soon. “But, please. _Please_. Poor Cicero needs to come.”

For a brief, delirious moment he wonders if she can read his mind, because she finally touches him. The long-awaited contact of her warm hand around his aching sex sends a jolt through his body, his hips buck up as he grunts. Lumen’s thumb swirls around the slit, and rubs at the sensitive skin on the underside of his tip. Her touch feels _wonderful_ , but it does little to relieve the pressure that’s slowly been building in his stomach.

He whimpers when she pulls away from him, and he actually thrashes when she moves off the bed. “No!! Lumen, please do not leave poor Cicero like this!” he shouts, struggling against his binds. 

Lumen blinks, and looks pleasantly surprised at his outburst. “Do you really think I’d just leave you?” she asks, plucking a small, clear vial from the bookshelf before moving back to the bed. 

Cicero stops struggling against his binds. He knows exactly what’s in that vial and what it’s for. “Cicero is sorry, sweet Lumen,” he gasps. “Only-- Cicero is being punished, and he thought-- he thought--”

“Cicero.” She gently strokes his face, all pretense of wickedness gone for the moment. “I would never be that cruel to you,” she tells him. “And like I told you before, this is a reward, my Cicero. Don’t you want to come?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, more than anything in the world.”

The Listener merely smiles at him as she pops the cork on the vial and coats her hand in a clear, viscous fluid. When she touches him again, she does not tease. A firm, slick hand strokes him from base to tip, while she massages the sensitive flesh of his perineum with her other hand. Cicero lets his head fall back against the pillows, lost in the attention his Listener is giving him.

“You’ve been hard and aching for so long.” Her voice carries the seductive, breathy quality it often does when she’s playing with a victim. And Cicero cannot decide if she’s doing it to add to his thrill or if it’s something that naturally happens when she has someone at her mercy. “You poor, sweet thing. It must have been difficult not to do anything about it yourself. But you didn’t, did you? You obeyed my commands perfectly.”

“Cicero promised to be good,” he murmurs, distracted by the deliciously tight hand stroking him, and the nimble fingers curiously massaging him.

“And you have kept your promise,” she purrs, and the hand working his length pauses, fingers squeezing tight around the base. “I only have one more command for you to follow.”

His eyes are cinched shut, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths that shake his entire body. He’s been staving off his orgasm as long as he could. As pent up as he was, he almost came at the first touch of her hand, and keeping himself from spilling has been a rather difficult task. His head is spinning, and he is _aching_ for release. He thinks he responds to her with words, but it may have been more of a grunt, or a broken string of pleas.

“I want you to come.” Her hand slides up the underside of his shaft, squeezing the head and tugging quickly, every stroke perfectly timed to work him toward his peak.

Cicero cries out, every muscle in his body flexing to an almost painful degree as his release hits him. His fingernails dig into his palms, his toes curl, and his back arches off the bed. Every thought in his head scatters like ashes on the wind. He is only aware of the swell of ecstasy engulfing him, the warmth of his come dribbling across his stomach, and Lumen’s helpful hand working him through an intense orgasm.

Eventually, once the bliss of his release subsides, Cicero slumps on the bed. His arms hang slack in his binds and his eyes slip closed. He knows nothing but euphoria, and he begins to fall into unconsciousness, as worn and weary as he is, but he jerks awake when he feels a cool, wet cloth caressing his overheated skin, washing away the mess he made. Once he is clean, Lumen releases his arms one at a time, careful to massage his muscles to prevent any pain from the sudden change in position. If poor Cicero weren’t so spent, he thinks he might cry at the sweet affection this deadly creature is giving him.

The bed dips beside him, and Lumen pulls him into the cradle of her arms. Cicero clings to her, his hands reaching up to finally undo that damnable breast band. But she doesn’t complain, she just hums softly, and strokes her fingers through his hair, content to let Cicero do as he please. Which he does. Once the material is cast away he pillows his head against her soft breasts, reveling in her warmth, and breathing in her scent.

“Cicero will try to behave from now on,” he whispers. “Cicero will be good, and he will not argue.”

Lumen doesn’t immediately respond, preferring to let the silence linger. “I value your opinion,” she says slowly, measuring her words. “Even if it does not coincide with my own, I need to hear it. In truth, I don’t mind your teasing so much. But I do not like it when you are being manipulative or evasive.” She takes a breath. “I do not trust easily, but I trust _you_ , Cicero. Just remember that my trust can be broken.”

“Cicero will remember, sweet Lumen,” he promises, meaning every word. “Cicero will not break your trust.”

“I know,” she says, kissing the top of his head. 

Cicero presses closer to her, though he cannot be any closer than he already is without being _inside_ her. Maybe later, after a few hours of rest, she will allow it. But for now, Cicero focuses on Lumen’s breathing, and the steady beat of her heart. Even though she won’t say it, _he knows_ , he knows with every fiber of his being that she loves him. That thought momentarily quells the madness that lashes and gnaws at the edges of his consciousness. His Listener loves him. What more does he need?

She won’t say it now, and she may never say it _ever_. But Cicero values actions more than words, and the Listener’s actions tell him everything he needs to know, even if she won’t.

Despite the Listener’s stubborn denial of her feelings, poor Cicero could not be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not planned to smutify this chapter, but Lumen and Cicero had other plans. I wonder if Cicero will be able to keep his promise and behave? I give him a day, and that’s probably too generous.
> 
> Up next: Luka returns and the Dark Brotherhood pay the Forsworn a visit.


	29. Discerning the Forsworn

Morning comes as it always does-- too damn early. Which is entirely Cicero’s fault. He’d promised Lumen that he’d let her sleep in, but then he woke her up by clinging to her and whining that he was bored and lonely. Despite Lumen’s threats of bodily harm, he was persistent, and eventually she gave up on getting anymore sleep.

Lumen sips her tea as she watches Cicero stir a pot of porridge. It’s not the most exciting breakfast, but with the only assassin with a culinary flair out on a contract, the Brotherhood has to make do. Porridge seems to be the only thing anyone can cook without completely ruining it or setting something on fire. Lumen hates the stuff. It reminds her too strongly of the gruel Malrian would serve her when she was being punished for one imagined offense or another. She would be denied decent food, a bed, and sometimes even a chamberpot. Just the scent of porridge reminds her of being stuck in the dark cellar of his estate, mere feet away from where her mother died. She preferred his physical punishments to being tossed in that cellar. Pain was more tolerable than being hungry, cold, and alone. 

“Good morning, brother!”

Cicero’s cheerful voice chases away the chill brought on by the sudden onslaught of painful memories, and she looks around to see who else might be entering the kitchen so early in the morning. Her stomach drops when she sees that it’s Arnbjorn, not that she’s surprised. The Nord does not sleep easily. Whether it’s simply a werewolf thing or an Arnbjorn thing, she does not know. What she does know is the he is last person she wants to see after their awkward kiss the day before. She truly had hoped it might be Eola coming down to the kitchen or, _gods forbid_ , Cyril. But those two tend to rise in the afternoon, and it’s barely dawn.

“Sleep well?” Cicero asks.

“I would have slept better if you two had made a little less noise,” Arnbjorn grouses as he takes a seat at the table, far away from Lumen. “Why in the name of Sithis did my room have to be next to yours?”

Lumen focuses on stirring a spoonful of honey into her tea, desperately hoping that Cicero suddenly falls mute before he can make the morning anymore embarrassing than it already is. But when she glances to where Cicero stands, she finds him staring at her and grinning. They had been a bit louder than usual during the night-- Cicero especially. Lumen had been so caught up in the thrill of dominating her Keeper that she forgot to ask him to cast a muffle spell on their door.

“It could have been you keeping poor Cicero up all night had you not pushed our sweet Lumen away,” Cicero says, and Lumen chokes on her tea.

“Drop it, little man,” Arnbjorn growls at Cicero, while casting a pointed glare at Lumen.

Cicero’s grin widens, absolutely giddy with the prospect of harassing both Arnbjorn and Lumen at the same time. “Absolutely not! It’s not every day a beautiful elf comes on to you. So what’s the problem? Not _up_ to the task, old man?”

Lumen sighs, mentally repeating a mantra as she rubs at her temples. _"I will not kill the Keeper. I will not kill the Keeper."_ It is entirely too early to deal with this, and just when Lumen close to Shouting him, the sound of the Black Door scraping open offers a much needed distraction. "Oh thank the gods," she says, cutting off whatever Cicero was preparing to say. "Perhaps Nazir is home. I don't think I can stomach another bowl of that sludge you're cooking over there."

"It is porridge," Cicero snaps, unreasonably offended. "And it is not as bad as you claim."

"It's _goop_ ," Lumen says. "It's grey, flavorless goop."

"Miss Lumen! I have so much to tell you!" comes Luka's breathless voice. The excited mage runs down the stairs in a flurry of motion. His oversized robe swirls around him, and Lumen is certain he's going to trip over the hem and go careening down the stairs. The knapsack flung over his shoulder bounces as he carelessly descends the stairs, its contents clattering against each other. He tosses the knapsack on the table and slides into a chair next to Lumen, ready to launch into that is certain to be a very detailed description of his travels. But it never comes, because Cicero is wrapping an arm around his shoulders and setting a bowl of porridge on the table in front of him.

"Welcome back, brother." Cicero gives Luka an affectionate squeeze, and Lumen watches with interest as Luka turns a rather fascinating shade of red.

"What-- I, um--" Luka stammers and his shoulders go stiff at the contact, a sign of someone who's seldom been shown affection. "It's-- uh, thanks? It's good to be-- _home_. Yes. Home is good." Cicero pulls away quickly, briefly meeting Lumen's gaze as he does. Very little is known about Luka, aside from his fascination with dead things and the Dark Brotherhood. But judging by the way he reacts to touch, he likely has a past as painful and shadowed as the rest of them.

Cicero does not allow Luka's reaction to bother him, he just goes about serving breakfast. A bowl is placed in front of Lumen, and she scowls at her unappetizing breakfast. Arnbjorn is served next, and judging by the look on his face, he's about as thrilled with the porridge as she is. Or perhaps he is reluctant to eat anything cooked by Cicero. The Keeper is not a bad cook, just a highly distracted one. He often forgets to add crucial ingredients, or he walks away, forgetting he ever put anything on the fire. Amazing how he can be so devoted and detail-oriented when it comes to Mother and murder, but he could care less about the mundane.

"So, Luka, tell me everything," Lumen says, watching with amusement as the skinny mage fights with the long sleeves of his oversized robe. "Did you find out where the Elder Scroll is? And, most importantly, is it easy to get to?"

"It's an Elder Scroll, Miss Lumen," Luka says, suppressing a giggle. "It's going to be quite difficult to find, but I believe we can do it! I know where it is! Septimus Signus said-- well, he said so many things. He is an utterly fascinating individual, you should really meet him sometime--"

Lumen clears her throat to cease his babbling. "The Elder scroll?"

"Oh! Yes, right! He said to go to Alftand, which is an old Dwemer ruin-- somewhere in Winterhold, I believe. Anyway, beneath the ruin is the city of Blackreach, and the Elder Scroll is somewhere within the city!"

It takes Lumen a few moments to truly process everything he's told her. She doesn't know what a Dwemer is, but the most annoying thing of all is that she has to search an entire city for an Elder Scroll! "Wonderful," she growls. "It's going to be like searching for a needle in a haystack."

"Oh, but it will be so much fun!" Luka says, smiling broadly. "Have you ever been to a Dwemer ruin? They are amazing places! I got to explore part of one when I was still at the college."

"Those ruins are full of traps, bandits, Falmer, and gods know what else," Arnbjorn says, looking none too pleased. "When I was with the Companions, we were often hired as bodyguards to protect some scrawny mage or a scholar who wanted to study those godsforsaken ruins. There's no way you three would survive one."

Cicero gasps, offended for the second time this morning. "Cicero has survived a great many things, thank you very much, and he will survive a musty, old ruin!"

"If I can kill a dragon, I think I can handle bandits or Falmer--" she pauses. "What _is_ a Falmer, anyway?"

"I have never seen one, but I have read about them. They are elves that remained below ground and it-- _changed_ them. They are grotesque, blind, deformed creatures." Luka doesn't even try to contain his excitement. "I would love to see one!"

"And don't think you have the upper-hand just because they can't see you," Arnbjorn says." They can move around in the dark better than any of us can, and by the time you see one, it's usually too late."

"Would you come with us?" Lumen asks, watching Arnbjorn curiously and wondering if he'll outright refuse her. It will be awkward traveling with him considering the kiss-- something they are both trying to avoid talking about. But Lumen has no desire to die in some dank, hole in the ground. “You seem to have the most experience with these ruins. And I-- _we_ would all feel safer if you were there with us.”

"When I left the Companions I swore I'd never set foot in one of those damn ruins again," Arnbjorn growls. "But I can't just sit idly by while you three simpletons blithely walk into danger."

Luka squares his shoulders upon hearing that. "I assure you, _sir_ , I am not simple _nor_ am I blithe."

"Do you know anything about Alftand?" Arnbjorn asks, undeterred by Luka's outrage. "We can't just walk into that ruin unprepared."

"I know it's in Winterhold," Luka snaps, though he does change his tone when Arnbjorn glares at him. "I, uh, I have a key of a sort." He reaches into his knapsack, pulling out a large, bronze sphere with strange carvings on it.

"That's the weirdest key I've ever seen," Lumen comments. "It's pretty, though."

"It is! It is!" Cicero trills, craning his neck to get a better look. "It is so shiny! Cicero likes shiny things."

"I have absolutely no idea how it works," Luka says, not at all bothered by the unknown. "But I'll figure it out. I figure most things out."

"We have time to prepare," Lumen says, spooning heaps of honey into her porridge. "Blackreach will have to wait. The Forsworn are the most pressing matter at the moment, and Cicero and I are leaving for Karthspire today to accept a contract."

"Yes. Which is why sweet Lumen should eat her breakfast rather than play with it," Cicero grouses.

"Oh, the Forsworn! _Fascinating_! May I come with you?" Luka asks, looking as hopeful as a tiny puppy begging for a treat.

"You think everything is fascinating," Lumen says with a laugh. "And no, Luka. You just got home and I want you to rest for the next few days." At the forlorn expression passing over him, she says, "Look, we're just accepting a contract. It's nothing exciting. But I promise the next time we visit the Forsworn, you can come along."

That promise brings the smile back to his face. "Thank you, Miss Lumen," Luka gasps. "I've always wanted to learn more about them, but they do not take too kindly to Nords approaching their cramps. But, _oh_ , if I could just go to one and walk around freely, that would be amazing! I'm so curious about the Hagravens and their Briarheart warriors! They are the ultimate thrall!"

The three senior assassins collectively side-eye each other as Luka prattles on about the advantages of a thrall that seemingly does not decay and displays at least some degree of intelligence. After witnessing some of the creation of a Briarheart, Lumen knows it's not something that can be done unless one has devoted themselves to whatever gods the Forsworn follow, but she sees no reason to dash Luka's hopes and dreams.

Lumen is content to Listen to Luka speak as she tries to stomach her breakfast. Truthfully, it's not so bad after a considerable amount of honey has been added to it, but she'll never admit it to Cicero. Once the assassins have eaten their fill, they all go their separate ways; Arnbjorn slinks off to his forge, and Luka wanders off to bed, while Lumen and Cicero prepare to leave home.

* * *

The sun is barely edging above the horizon as Cicero and Lumen leave Dawnstar atop their Daedric steed, swathed in cloaks to stave off the icy, early morning winds. They spend their journey speculating on what Madanach may ask of them. When they tire of that subject, Cicero entertains Lumen by reciting dirty limericks and telling her jokes, both old and new. She tells him a few of her own, and she even shares a bawdy tune she heard years ago at a tavern in Bravil.

Evening has fallen over the Reach by the time they arrive at Karthspire. It looks different than before. The busy camp glows with the light of multiple campfires and torches, and there are at least a dozen newly erected tents along the perimeter of the camp alone. Along the edge of the camp, archers sit on lookout posts and warriors walk the grounds, and they are all watching the two assassins very carefully.

Lumen and Cicero dismount Shadowmere and cautiously approach one of the men guarding the camp. “We need to speak with Madanach,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound as uncertain as she feels. “He’s expecting us.”

"Wait here," a masked warrior tells them, before vanishing into the camp. A minute later he comes back with a second Forsworn, but one Lumen recognizes.

"Welcome back to Karthspire, friends," Uraccen says, motioning for them to follow. "You can leave your horse by the goat pen. I doubt anyone will bother him."

Lumen leaves Shadowmere near the pen, much to the dismay of the man tending to the goats, and follows Uraccen through the crowded camp. "This place has grown since we were last here," she comments.

"News of Madanach's return has traveled fast, and there were plenty of Forsworn, both young and old, who wished to welcome him back," he tells them. "Though, I think the young ones just wanted to see if he breathed fire and ate babies as some of the stories claim."

"And the old ones?" Lumen asks.

"They've come to pledge loyalty," he tells her and falls quiet on the subject as they approach a rickety, wooden staircase that leads to a high platform. "Up there."

Madanach's tent is positioned on a platform high above the rest of the camp. Lumen wonders if it's a sign of his station, or done to keep him safe in the event of a Nord raid or a Forsworn mutiny. Either way, she suspects he will not tell her. She ascends the staircase with Cicero at her heels. Beneath them, the rest of the camp buzzes with noise and life; families and friends talking, laughing, and singing in celebration of another day spent free. But the platform is deathly quiet in comparison. The steps leading up to it are lined with grim-faced warriors who lower their eyes as the assassins pass. It's a sign of respect and fear. Lumen and Cicero are guests of their leader, and they are perpetrators of dark deeds. All warriors know that it is never wise to stare death in the face.

Madanach, however, has no such reservations about staring. He steps out of the tent to greet them, his intelligent, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, look who finally decided to show up," he says. "I was afraid I'd have to send my people after you again."

"We came as soon as we could," Lumen says, calm and respectful. Multiple times on the journey to Karthspire, Cicero took care to remind her that this is business and to control her temper no matter what. The constant reminders did cause her to lose her temper, however, but only once.

"I'm sure," he says, throwing the tent flap aside and stepping inside. "Come on, then. We have business to discuss."

Lumen enters after Madanach with Cicero in her wake. It is a very large tent, complete with a wooden bed of straw and furs, a table with chairs, a storage chest, and piles of books. She takes a seat at the small table, and Cicero stands behind her, his hands resting on the back of her chair. While the Forsworn have been perfectly civil to them both, the assassins deemed it wise to be on their guard.

"So who do you want killed?" she asks, leaning back in the chair.

Madanach laughs, taking a seat on the other side of the table. "Straight to the point, I like that," he says. "This may surprise you, but I don't want you to kill anyone. I want you to retrieve someone."

Lumen glances up at Cicero, who merely shrugs. "This is a little unconventional," she says to Madanach. "If you need someone rescued, maybe you should hire the Companions."

"Oh, it's no rescue," he says, grinning. "I want you to kidnap Thongvor Silver-Blood, and I want you to bring him here so I can kill the miserable bastard myself."

"Why do you need the Dark Brotherhood to do this?" she asks. "As I recall, your people are quite good at kidnapping."

Madanach sighs. "They've tried. But ever since the Cidhna Mine incident, the Markarth guards have been keeping a close eye on anyone who enters the city. Especially anyone who looks like a Reachman. And there's only one way in or out of the city, which makes kidnapping Thongvor exceptionally difficult."

"Your people have tried?" Cicero asks, suspicion evident in his voice. "How far did they get?"

"I'm wondering that, myself. Will Thongvor be expecting trouble?"

"I sent two men into Markarth, but they never came back out." Madanach frowns, the expression deepening the lines of age across his face. "That was weeks ago, and I can only assume they are dead. The Silver-Bloods are known to hire mercenaries, and though I find it unbelievable that two of my men were taken out by Nord sell swords, I have little else to go on."

"They must be better than the average sell sword." Lumen wonders if Madanach is sending the Dark Brotherhood on a suicide mission. But she doesn't entertain that thought for long considering the Divines themselves have chosen to send _her_ on one. "Right, so, is this Silver-Blood person of any importance?"

"Have you seriously never heard the name before?"

"I’m from Cyrodiil," Lumen says, feeling a little defensive. "There's a lot about Skyrim that is still new to me."

Madanach grumbles something to himself. “Yes, this Silver-Blood person is important,” he says, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “He’s so important, in fact, that if the Stormcloaks were to take Markarth, he would become the jarl, and I need your help to ensure that never happens.”

"Is there a chance of the Stormcloaks taking Markarth?" Lumen asks. "I admit, I haven't been keeping up with the war. It doesn't concern me."

"There's always a chance," he growls. "The political winds are ever shifting, and with the emperor dead, things have been looking up for Ulfric Stormcloak." Madanach sneers at her. "Thank you for that, by the way."

Lumen nervously wrings her hands together. "I don't see how it matters. It's not as if the emperor was fighting on the front lines."

"It _matters_ because the members of the Elder Council are so busy squabbling over who will be the next emperor, the war here is largely being ignored. That won't last forever, but while it does, that bastard Ulfric is gaining a foothold, and I won't see him gain it in Markarth."

"I don’t understand how this helps you," Lumen says, though she knows little of politics and she knows she ought to keep her mouth shut. "It's one man we're killing. Thongvor can't be the only person Ulfric would be willing to name jarl if he takes the city."

"Thongvor is the last member of the Silver-Blood family. He also owns one of the largest silver mines in Skyrim. He's named no heir, and when he dies, the mines and the profits belong to the city, and since the city is under Imperial control, they will be better equipped to defend themselves if Ulfric tries to take over." He slouches in his chair, looking forlorn. "That's my hope, at any rate. There's little anyone can do if he decides to use his godsforsaken _Thu'um_ again."

"Wait-- he can use the _Thu'um_?" Lumen asks, not bothering to mask her surprise.

"You really don't know anything about Skyrim, do you?" Madanach shakes his head, a snort of laughter leading his next words. "I bet he'd cry himself to sleep if he knew a ditsy elf is the Dragonborn instead of him."

“Ditsy?!” Lumen snarls, only to be interrupted by Cicero.

"Maybe he does know," Cicero says, clearly amused at the direction the conversation is taking. "You know quite a lot about what is happening in the Elder Council. If you have spies, then surely he does as well."

Just the thought that some man she's never met, and will likely never meet, knowing anything about her makes her distinctly uncomfortable. "If you hate Ulfric Stormcloak so much, why don't you just hire us to kill him?" Lumen asks.

"Because I don't need your help with that," Madanach says quickly, offering no further explanation and Lumen knows better than to press him for any more information. "Can we get back to the subject of my contract with you?"

"We can," Lumen says. "We still need to discuss our payment."

"Right." Madanach pushes away from the table and walks over to the large, oak chest. He reaches inside and procures a heavy bag of gold. "The Forsworn don't have much in the way of gold. We have to steal it since no one but the Khajiit caravans will trade with us," he tells them as he thumps a heavy sack of gold on the table. "I'm offering a thousand septims and my eternal gratitude. Which is worth a lot, I assure you. You get half the payment now and the other half when the job is done, and _only_ if the job is done right.”

“That’s fair.” Lumen stares at the bag of gold. Kidnapping a high-profile person in a crowded city is going to be very difficult, and it will require some planning. But it's not impossible. "How quickly do you want this taken care of?"

"I'd like it done before the Stormcloak forces make a move on Markarth," he says, scratching his chin. "There's been no sign of them gathering anywhere near, so you have time. But I'd prefer it if this was done sooner rather than later. I _really_ want to kill this man."

"Understood," Lumen says. "I'll hand the contract off as soon as I return home."

"May Cicero ask a question?" he asks, though he doesn't wait for permission to be given. "You do not support the Empire and definitely not the Stormcloaks. So Cicero wonders why you want Markarth to remain under Imperial control. Markarth was yours once, and if you decide to retake the city, wouldn't it be easier to fight rebels rather than well-funded and well-armed soldiers?"

“You’re smarter than you let on, jester,” Madanach says, watching Cicero closely.

“A stupid assassin is a dead assassin,” Cicero comments.

“I don’t have the manpower to retake Markarth,” he says, grim as ever. “But as long as the Stormcloaks don’t have control of that city, I’ll consider it a small victory.”

“You are planning something, though,” Lumen says, her fingers inching toward the sack of gold, caressing the roughspun cloth that contains their payment. “Hard not to be a little curious.”

“Aye, I am. But I’m not privy to your secrets, Listener,” Madanach says, the slightest hint of malice threading through his words. “And you aren’t privy to mine.”

“Fair enough,” Lumen says, deciding now would be a good time to take her leave. She gives the sack of gold to Cicero for safekeeping, before standing from her seat and offering Madanach her hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

“I look forward to hearing from you,” he says, gripping her hand and giving it a firm shake. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

* * *

Masser and Secunda rise over the city of Markarth as night falls across Skyrim. Luka skulks in the deep shadows behind the Arnleif and Sons Trading Company, watching the Listener help Eola tighten the straps of her shrouded armor.

When the Listener and Keeper came home, the Bosmer had approached him because she specifically wanted him for this contract. The capture of Thongvor Silver-Blood was fairly easy to plan, the only real problem was getting in and out of the city unseen. That's when Eola managed to worm her way in on _his_ contract. Turns out, she's got connections in Markarth. One such connection is Lisbet, the owner of Arnleif and Sons. The woman smuggled the assassins into the city without question, and Eola's other connection, Hogni Red-Arm, has agreed to smuggle them out. Neither of the shady merchants asked questions, and they seem to hold Eola in high esteem, but there's something about them that sets Luka's teeth on edge. Eola provided no information about them aside from the fact that they know the value of keeping a secret, and that was good enough for the Listener.

Luka fidgets with his uncomfortable leather armor. He did not want to wear it, and he only agreed to do so at the Listener's insistence. The leather is supple enough, and he is able to move easily, but he does not like having any sort of material so close to his skin. He prefers his loose, breezy robes to tight fitting armor. Armor that is so tight, in fact, that it leaves very little to the imagination. Miss Lumen claimed he looked _‘dashing’_ in it, and Cicero's eyes lingered on his form for quite some time, which was very flattering. But Luka remains unconvinced. He feels much more protected _and_ handsome in his mage robes.

"I assume you two were able to get along long enough to discuss the plan," Lumen says, looking between Luka and Eola.

"Yes, Miss Lumen," Luka says meekly. The Listener snapped at both him and Eola for bickering on the trip to Markarth. He has tried to keep his irritation inside since then. But he is not happy about being paired up for this contract. He has always worked alone. He prefers it. It's sweet of the Listener to be concerned for his safety, and he supposes Eola's connections have proven useful. If there’s anything he is glad for, it’s that the Listener and Cicero have decided to tag along. Their presence is always welcome. 

"Good," she says firmly. "You're _family_. This isn't a competition. I want you to be careful and watch out for each other. Cicero and I will be your back-up, but this contract is primarily yours."

Eola grins at Luka. "I'll play nice if you do," she says, and he heaves a sigh. He can never tell if his new sister is out to get him or if she's just playing around.

"Remember, we're _kidnapping_ Thongvor, not killing him," Lumen says for the fifth time this evening. It's as if she thinks her assassins might become a little overzealous. "Don't fuck this up. If he dies, Madanach will be pissed, and he'll be pissed at _me_. I don't know about you, but I really don't want to face his wrath."

"Trust them to do right," Cicero says quietly. "They do not wish to face _your_ wrath, either." Luka had almost forgotten the Keeper had come along. He's been so quiet, drifting in and out of the shadows effortlessly. He's so loud and lively in any given scenario, but tonight, he's different. Calm and focused. Doing Sithis' work clearly has an effect on the man.

"Eola, do you know where the Treasury House is?" Lumen asks, slightly mollified by Cicero's comment.

Eola nods. "I do. Just follow me, Listener."

With that, Eola leads them up a flight of stone steps and to a path that overlooks the lower pathways of Markarth. It has less guard patrols, and it offers them a better view of any guards who may be approaching. The four assassins use the shadows to their advantage, stepping swiftly and silently through the dark. Their enchanted armor cloaks them as well as any invisibility spell would. It's better than a spell, actually, because it's like being invisible without the drain on his magicka.

Luka peers over the edge of the pathway, checking for guards. The coast is clear, except for a Vigilant of Stendarr standing on the path below. It looks as if the man is guarding the door to a house. Now, that's interesting. Why would a Vigilant be guarding a random house in Markarth? He'll have to tell Miss Lumen about that later. For now, he pushes the distraction from his mind as they draw closer to the Treasury House.

There's only one mercenary guarding the Treasury House. The man hums quietly as he surveys the pathway in front of the house. With a vague motion of Lumen's hand, Cicero darts forward without a sound. He moves quick and quiet, flitting from shadow to shadow until he is standing behind the man, his hand covering his mouth while the other drawing his favored ebony blade across the man's throat. The mercenary dies in a silent spray of blood, and Cicero carefully lowers his body to the ground and searches him for a key.

Cicero skips over to Luka, handing the key over with a flourish. "Are you ready?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Things are certain to get very exciting if there are more mercenaries inside."

Luka nods. "I haven't had a decent fight in a long time," he says quietly. "I'm looking forward to it."

"I knew you weren't a complete stick-in-the-mud," Eola says, and while he can't see it, he can hear the smile in her voice.

He smiles in spite of himself, and unlocks the door. He and Eola slip inside, while Lumen and Cicero drag the dead mercenary's body through the door so it doesn't draw the attention of a passing guard. The men guarding the front of the Treasury House stare at them in stunned silence, clearly wondering if four masked figures really just entered the house with one of their dead comrades, or if it's a very vivid hallucination.

Lumen shuts the door, and the soft click shakes the stunned men from their stupor. The silence of the night explodes into a tempest of noise as the mercenaries launch their attack. They tip over chairs and tables, reaching for their weapons, and screaming obscenities as they run toward the intruders.

Their cheap weapons and fur armor are no match for Luka's magic. He lifts his hands and calls for fire. It comes, the veil separating Mundus from Aetherius momentarily shifting as Luka pulls forth a storm of ethereal flames, immolating two advancing mercenaries almost instantly. The dry fur and leather, coupled with the ample amounts of alcohol the men imbibed made them incredibly flammable. It is quite a sight to see, and Luka's only disappointment is that their screams didn't last as long as he hoped. But his disappointment is short-lived as another mercenary advances on him, apparently quite eager to have a face full fire.

When the man falls, Luka looks to where Eola is. His sister is also having a wonderful time, cackling as she dodges the mercenaries sloppy, drunken attacks. She laughs harder when she sends a bolt of lightning shrieking through the air, striking one square in the chest.

Lumen and Cicero stand near the doors and watch the carnage unfold. Although, in the brief moment where Luka can tear his eyes away from the battle, he notices Lumen casting worried glances toward Eola and her storm of lightning magic. He wonders why, but he's not stupid enough to ask the Listener questions she won't answer.

Finally, after a few minutes of frenzied battle, silence falls over the Treasury House. The floor is littered with charred corpses, splintered furniture, and broken pottery. Luka's heart flutters in his chest from the cool surge of adrenaline left over from the fight. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, willing his heart to slow and for his hands to steady. It wouldn't do to get lost in the thrill now. There is still a Silver-Blood to kidnap.

"That was impressive," Cicero gasps, smiling broadly as he surveys the room. "It was absolute chaos!"

Lumen makes a small sound of agreement, a shudder passing over her before she moves away from the door and walks across the corpse-littered floor. "Let's hurry up and find Thongvor."

"I think he's up here," Eola says, pointing at a pair of metal doors at the top of a staircase. "I heard a crash."

"At least he's making it easy to find him," Luka says as he follows Eola up the stairs, the Listener and Cicero trailing along behind them.

They open the doors and find a balding, middle-aged Nord on the other side, brandishing a sword at them. "Stay back!" he snarls. "I'm warning you! I'll run you through if you take another step closer!"

"You must be Thongvor," Eola purrs, and chances a step closer to see if he will make good on his threat. "Things will go much better for you if you just cooperate with us."

"I told you not to come any closer!" The man takes a step back, not wishing to fight the people who just annihilated a company of mercenaries.

Luka's fingers tingle as he reaches for his magic, calling on a paralysis spell to shut the man up. It will be easier to administer the sleeping potion Babette gave them if the man is unable to defend himself. He flicks his wrist, a spiral of green enveloping Thongvor as the man stiffens and falls backwards, his sword clattering to the ground.

"Impatient, are we?" Eola grins over her shoulder.

"What’s the point in playing with our prey if we aren’t going to kill him?” Luka sniffs. 

"Getting a paralyzed man to swallow a potion is going to be fun," Eola grumbles as she digs in her pack for the bottles.

"Internal functions still work when one is paralyzed," Luka says quickly, his impatience momentarily quelled by his love of explaining how magic works. "The spell only affects skin and muscle, but the internal organs still have to work, otherwise the subject would die. He can most certainly swallow, just hold his nose and massage his throat."

Eola smirks. "You just get more interesting by the minute."

"I--" he stammers, and then decides to just not respond to that comment. "Be sure to prop him up or he'll choke."

"Cicero will help you, sister," the Keeper says, stepping into the room and kneeling beside Thongvor, lifting him up so he can safely swallow the potions. Luka feels a tiny swelling of pride when he sees Eola trying the method he suggested, but it quickly fades when he hears someone enter through the front door.

"Shit," Lumen hisses. "I thought I locked the front door!"

"Do not worry, Miss Lumen. I will be happy to fry the poor fool for you," Luka offers, eager for yet another victim to add to his tally.

"You're a dear," Lumen says, and she walks with him to the front room, presumably to watch some idiot mercenary burn to death. "Can you burn him from the inside out? I'd pay to see that."

"I could try. I never thought of that before--" Luka’s voice falters when he lays his eyes on the mercenary. He is not certain his waning magicka will be enough to handle this mountain of a man. Calling the being in front of him a _man_ is a bit of a stretch. He's an enormous, beast of a Nord. Perhaps he is half mammoth, judging by all the hair, anyway. And judging by the way the man roars at him when he charges, he just might be half troll. But Luka has no time to speculate on the man’s tragic lineage, because the biggest Nord he’s ever laid eyes on is coming right at him with his war hammer raised.

“Oh dear...”

* * *

Lumen watches in horror as Luka barely dodges a war hammer to the head. He is fast, but he is also tired, and he cannot dodge the giant Nord’s attacks forever. She has no idea what to do. There’s no way she could face the man on her own, and she knows she’ll need to use her Shouts, but which one? Unrelenting Force could possibly bring the building down on them, and there are too many bodies and splintered bits of furniture lying around to use Fire Breath. She’d set the entire place on fire. There is one Shout she’s never used before, and she’s not entirely sure what it does. 

She growls in frustration, feeling helpless as she watches Luka fight what is obviously a losing battle.The need to protect one of her own is urging her to do _something_. But she cannot use a Shout with Luka so close to the target.

"Luka! Get out of the way so I can Shout him!"

The mage can't respond, as winded and focused as he is, but she is certain he heard her. The big ox did. He eyes her suspiciously at the mention of a Shout, and the momentary distraction gives Luka an opening to fling a fireball at the man's head. The Nord roars in pain as the fire chars and blisters the skin along the side of his face. Luka uses the man's pain to his advantage, and he grabs the war hammer, using all his weight to yank it from the man's grip. It slips free from the mercenary’s sweaty hands, and Luka stumbles backwards, dragging the war hammer that is too heavy for him to lift. The mountainous Nord seems undeterred at the loss of his weapon. He grabs a leg from a nearby broken table and swings it at Luka, and Lumen watches, horrified, as it smacks against his side, his ribs breaking with a sickening crunch. The mage screams in pain as he stumbles to the floor, clutching at his side.

The Nord lifts the table leg, intending to beat Luka to death with it, and Lumen realizes she has to act _now_. Hopefully Luka will still be alive to forgive her if he gets caught in her Shout. She runs toward the giant Nord, sucking in a deep breath before Shouting, **_"KRII!"_**

The Shout hits him and he stumbles backwards. He groans as tiny cuts form along his flesh and his armor frays, the wood table leg in his hand develops signs of rot. But the Shout is weak, and the man is quick to recover from it. Fortunately for Luka, he's forgotten all about him. Unfortunately for Lumen, the man is now focused entirely on her.

"You'll die for that, elf bitch!" he snarls, tossing the rotten wood aside and stalking toward her, clearly intending to kill her with his bare hands.

"Cicero! Eola! I could use some help out here!" she yells while reaching for her daggers. Lumen has never taken on anything so enormous outside of a dragon, and she’s never had to face a dragon alone. She feels safe with her twin daedric blades in her hands, they are like an extension of her own body. But her skill with her blades matters little if she can't find an opening or a weak point in the Nord's armor. She is woefully outmatched. If he never caught sight of her, she could have attacked him from behind, and easily slipped her blade into a weak spot along the side of his armor. The man is too skilled of a fighter to let her dart off to the side, and she could never get her dagger past his defenses while facing him head on.

The Nord lunges at her, and she manages to barely avoid being grabbed by the man. But in her haste to back away from him, she trips and topples backwards over an upended table. Lumen winces, gritting her teeth and trying like the Void to move quickly, even though the pain of landing on top of splintered wood is hard to ignore. She starts to crawl away, but the man grabs her ankle and tugs her back toward him, dragging her through the broken shards of wood and glass.

"Listener!"

"Hang on, Listener!" Eola calls.

Cicero and Eola's sudden appearance distracts the Nord. "There are more of you?" he growls, and Lumen takes the opportunity to yank her ankle free and kick him as hard as she can in the knee. Her foot connects with a satisfying crunch, dislocating his knee cap. He curses, losing his balance and landing hard on his knees, which brings forth another wave of cursing. The pain of his injury isn’t enough to stop his murderous rampage, through. He shifts his weight on his good knee, trying grab Lumen before she can finally put some space between them.

In three quick steps, Cicero is standing over the man, the blade of his ebony dagger sliding into his eye socket before the giant Nord can react. His other hand fists in the man's hair, keeping his head still while he shoves his dagger in until the hilt hits bone, and the tip of the blade is protruding from the back of the man's head. Cicero's face is rigid with fury, and his leather gloves creak as his fingers squeeze the hilt of the dagger tighter than strictly necessary. Lumen has seen Cicero so angry and so _frightening_ only once-- months ago, before she was named Listener, when he thought she was manhandling the Night Mother. Apparently manhandling the Listener is as grievous of an offence.

The man’s body convulses and he chokes on the blood now flooding his sinus cavity and throat. Cicero keeps his grip on him, staring down at the Nord's face as his life slips away. In one quick motion, he twists the dagger still embedded in the man's skull and pulls it free with a squelch. The man slumps to the floor when Cicero releases his grip on his hair, and he very calmly wipes blood and brain from his dagger before sheathing it. 

Cicero is deadly silent as he approaches Lumen, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet with ease. "Are you all right, sweet Lumen?" he asks, his voice shaky with rage.

"Yeah," she gasps, a little stunned by the intensity of Cicero's reaction. She always did love watching him kill. She could kiss him for dispatching the mercenary for her, and in such a marvelous way, too. But she doubts she’d be able to stop. "I-- I'm fine. Just a few scratches. Luka needs help, though."

"Oh gods," Eola exclaims, running over to Luka's prone form. "Luka! Are you dead?"

"No," he says weakly. "Not dead. My ribs are broken though. Just two, I think, but--"

"You’re a mage! Heal yourself, dummy!"

"Damn it, Eola," Luka growls, clutching his side as he stands with her help. "I'm a necromancer, not a healer!"

Lumen pries Cicero's fingers from her arm after he shows no signs of letting her go. "What of Thongvor?" she asks, hoping to get his mind back on the contract, and to stop the bickering between Luka and Eola before it starts anew.

"He's sleeping like a baby," Eola says, her gaze wandering to the body of the giant, thankfully dead, Nord. "Hey, I remember seeing him around Markarth before. I think he's a bard."

"There is no way that man-beast is a bard!" Lumen stares down at the man in disbelief. "He couldn't strum a lute with those meaty hands!"

Eola laughs at that, and Luka groans in pain from the sudden movement. "Could you please not jostle me around so much?" he asks, awkwardly leaning onto the short, Breton woman for support. Said woman merely rolls her eyes at his complaint, but she does not to argue with him.

"Come on," Lumen says, taking Cicero by the arm. "Let's deliver Thongvor to the Forsworn and collect the rest of our payment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for being lame and not adding a scene with Luka and Septimus. I tried to write it, but it just would not come. :/
> 
> Just in case anyone forgot, Madanach is sneaky and he found out Lumen is the Listener in chapter 19. There was also a small discussion between him and Uraccen regarding a rumor involving the Dark Brotherhood and the death of an emperor. ;) It was a few chapters ago, so I figured I’d mention that here in case anyone needed a refresher.
> 
> Next: The Forsworn receive a special delivery, and the search for the Elder Scroll begins! 
> 
> Just a note- the scene involving Blackreach will be as brief as I can get away with it being. It’s a pretty place, but how many times can I write about Falmer getting stabbed until it’s really boring? Also, I am SO EXCITED about getting to the Season Unending part of the story. I’ve had it all planned out since like chapter 10!


	30. Pale Overtures

Shadowmere snorts irritably as he pulls a heavy cart into Karthspire camp. The stallion is not happy about pulling a cart like some old farm horse. He nipped at Cicero when he was putting the harness on him, and he tried to kick the cart when they hitched it to the traces. Eventually he relented when Lumen offered him an apple and a handful of compliments, soothing his wounded ego as best as she could.

The usually lively camp is silent as the cart rolls across the uneven terrain. The air smells rich with the resinous scent of fir trees, burning wood and spiced meat roasting on spits. Lumen bites back a string of curses when she realizes the eyes of every damn Forsworn are on her and her companions. She cannot blame them for staring, but she loathes being the center of attention. Assassins should never be the center of attention.

Lumen's salvation from all the prying eyes comes in the form of Madanach. "You're back sooner than expected, friend," he says. Lumen is glad he's chosen not to refer to her as Listener in front of the entire camp. There are likely some Forsworn who cannot even be trusted with that information. "Do you have something for me?"

"I do," she answers, and with Eola's help she pulls Thongvor out of the cart. His hands are bound, and a black hood is pulled over his head. There was no reason to blind him, seeing as he won't be leaving the camp, but Lumen thought it would be fun to add to his anxiety. The sleeping potions haven't entirely left his system, and he stumbles like a drunkard as Lumen and Eola drag him to Madanach. They shove him to the ground at Madanach's feet, and a cheer erupts among the Forsworn.

"Oh gods," Thongvor gasps. "Oh, by the gods, no..."

"Know where you are, Thongvor?" Madanach asks, ripping the black hood off Thongvor's head.

"Gods have mercy," he whispers, his body shaking in fear. 

"The gods may have mercy on you, Thongvor, but I won't." Madanach sneers at him, then looks away to bark orders at his warriors. "You two! Go tie him up somewhere, and keep an eye on him. I'll be there as soon as I've concluded my business with the elf."

"The _elf_ ," Lumen mutters.

"There are worse things he could call you," Eola helpfully adds.

Before Lumen can agree to that, Luka's pained voice draws her attention. She turns to see a very excited, but very pale, Luka hanging over the edge of the cart and looking around excitedly. "I'm actually in a Forsworn camp!" he gasps. "Do you think they will let me look around?"

"No," Cicero snaps, gingerly pulling Luka away from the edge of the cart. "Luka needs to lie down before he makes his injuries worse!" The poor Keeper looks rather harried. His cap is askew and his hair is out of place. He spent most of the journey trying to keep Luka still, which ended up being a greater task than any of them thought possible. The Nord's curiosity seemed to override his common sense, and he was willing to risk exacerbating his injury just to catch a glimpse of any interesting landmarks they passed on their way to Karthspire.

"What's wrong with your man over there?" Madanach asks.

"He was injured," Lumen tells him. "So if you don't mind, I'd like to collect the rest of our payment so I can get him home."

"Stay here for the night," he says, and it sounds more like an order than a suggestion. “I'll have a healer see to him and have food brought to you all."

Lumen is tempted to refuse his offer, because home is where she wants to be. But then she recalls hearing Eola and Cicero fantasize about food during the journey, and both Cicero and Luka really look like they could use some rest. As selfish as she is, she knows her own wants will have to be ignored for the sake of her family's well-being. "All right," she says. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he says, motioning for her to follow him. "You've done me a great kindness by bringing Thongvor here. It's only right that I repay you."

"You _paid_ me to bring him here." Lumen glances at Madanach. "And you're just about to give me the second half of that payment."

"True," he laughs, ducking inside his tent. "But I also said you would have my eternal gratitude for doing this. You and your people are welcome to stay as long as you need to."

Lumen follows him inside. "That's very generous of you, but we'll only be in your hair for tonight.”

"Places to go, people to kill," Madanach says as he hands Lumen a heavy sack of gold.

"Mostly true," she says, weighing the sack in her hands. "I need to find an Elder Scroll, but I am sure I will do plenty of killing in the meantime."

Madanach's eyes widen just a fraction. "What could you possibly want with an Elder Scroll?"

"I'm going to tear a hole in the fabric of time so I can learn a Shout to defeat Alduin," Lumen says, giving Madanach a winning smile to add to the false cheer in her voice.

"Old gods help us all," he mutters. "You can't be serious. Aren't there easier ways to learn a Shout? Like from those old codgers sitting on top of that damned mountain?"

"You would think so," Lumen says. "But it's a Shout even they do not know."

"Right." He shakes his head, as if he's wishing this were a bad dream. "Well, Listener-- Dragonborn-- whatever you prefer to call yourself--"

"Lumen is fine."

"Just try not to destroy the world in the process of saving it," he growls, clearly not appreciative of her sarcasm. “Have you talked to Delphine about this?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t you think you should?”

"Don't you have a prisoner to torture?" Lumen asks, annoyed. "Or do you want to sit here and lecture me all night like some overbearing father?"

"Old habits die hard," he says, vague as ever. Rather than offer any further explanation, he throws open the tent flap and says, "Borkul! Show our guest to her tent, and then meet me back here. We have an execution to plan."

"Right, boss," comes a deep voice. By his accent, Lumen knows Borkul is an Orsimer before she ever sees him. She tries not to gape at him when she does catch sight of him. He's easily the tallest, broadest Orc she's ever seen. Bare from the waist up and covered in interesting tattoos and warpaint. "Come on, woman. I don't have all night to stand here while you stare."

Lumen shakes herself out of her stupor, and after bidding Madanach goodnight, she follows the Orc through the camp. "I figured all the Forsworn were Reachmen," she says.

"I was born in the Reach." His answer is brusque, not that Lumen is surprised. Orsimer do not like to engage in small talk.

Lumen makes no effort to speak again during their walk through the camp, and when she arrives at her tent the Orc just grunts and walks off. The assassin's campsite consists of two tents, and there are angry voices are coming from one of them. One she doesn't recognize coupled with Luka's whining and Cicero's pleading. She pokes her head inside the tent to a curious sight; Luka lying on his side, but twisting around to see what the healer is doing, Cicero begging him to stay still, and Eola watching the scene with interest.

The healer, a young woman with prematurely silver hair, scowls at Luka. "I cannot heal this properly if you don't lie still!"

"But I want to see what you're doing!" Luka says.

"It's not that interesting, I assure you," the healer snaps. “Now lie down or you will end up with improperly healed ribs. Which means I will have to break them in order to heal them all over again!”

“Do as she says, Luka,” Lumen commands, not bothering to step into the overly crowded tent.

Luka flinches at the sound of her voice. “B- but, Miss Lumen--”

“Just do it.” Then, to Cicero she says, “Hold him down if you need to.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Cicero purrs, and the lascivious tone of his voice is not lost on anyone in the tent. Eola chuckles, while the healer just rolls her eyes, but Luka’s reaction is the most interesting of all. He does stop squirming so the healer can get to work, but he is blushing and staring wide-eyed at Cicero, clearly wondering if he heard the Keeper correctly.

“I’m sure it would be, Cicero. Just wait until our dear Luka is healed,” Lumen says with a grin, watching as Luka bites his lower lip. She isn’t sure if the groan that comes from deep in his throat is a result of the healing or not, but his reaction, as Luka would put it, is _fascinating_.

Eola fans herself. “It is getting entirely too hot in here for me,” she says, laughing as she exits the crowded tent.

The healer frowns. “None of _that_ business until you are fully healed,” she says. “I have done all I can, but you need to rest for a week and allow your bones to fully mend.”

Luka covers his face in embarrassment, murmuring something about not knowing what _business_ the healer means. His half-hearted lie falls flat, and the healer just shakes her head.

“My work here is done,” she says, moving away from Luka and exiting the tent. “Remember what I said-- _one week_!”

“Be gentle with him.” Lumen knows she shouldn’t tease Luka so much, but he’s so adorable when he’s embarrassed. With that, she excuses herself from the tent and wanders off in search of Eola, giving Cicero and Luka some much needed privacy.

* * *

Cicero watches Luka gingerly sit up, holding a hand over his tender, newly-healed ribs. The Nord hasn’t looked at him since Lumen left the tent, and his face is still flushed pink from embarrassment. Maybe they shouldn’t tease him so, but the young Nord’s interest in Cicero is too obvious to ignore. It’s in the way he smiles and the way he constantly tries to tame his messy hair, but to no avail. He is young though, he cannot be a day over twenty, and in a way that makes Cicero feel like a dirty, old man. But, truly, their age difference is no more scandalous than him being with Lumen. A human is most definitely an adult by thirty five, but a mer? She’s no more mature than Luka in that sense. Her lack of maturity is made blatantly obvious by her inability to handle her feelings and her addiction to impulse. Not to mention a multitude of other quirks that belie her youth. She also makes Cicero feel like a dirty, old man. Not that it really bothers him. What’s the point of being an assassin if one can’t indulge in a little depravity from time to time?

Cicero is a little dirty, but he is not _old_. But, by his last count, he is thirty eight and he is not getting any younger. So to attract the attention of not one, but two of his young siblings is quite flattering.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

Luka flinches at the sound of his voice. “Y-- yes,” he stammers, curling into himself and still not looking at Cicero. Which frustrates him to no end. It is so much easier to have a conversation with someone’s _face_. Is it possible that both he and Lumen misjudged the young Nord? No, Cicero is never wrong about these things, but it is possible to go about them in the wrong way.

“Cicero means you no harm,” he says, hoping to soothe any fears the mage might be harboring. “Lumen means you no harm either, and if our teasing has upset you, you must say so.”

“Um--” The shy Nord finally turns to glance over his shoulder, his body still rigid with uncertainty. “I’m not upset. I-- I’m just--” Luka sighs, frustrated with his own stammering. “I’m confused.”

“About?”

“Well,” Luka breathes, his attention wandering off to some unseen point beyond their tent, to where Lumen and Eola are having a quiet conversation. “Are you and Miss Lumen simply teasing me or are you trying to imply-- something more?”

“Would it bother you if we were implying something more?”

“No.” Luka scoots around to so that he can face Cicero more comfortably. “But, I admit, I do not know what to do with a woman. I prefer men.” He lets his eyes roam across Cicero, some semblance of confidence finally sparking in his gaze. “I know _exactly_ what to do with a man.”

Now _that_ surprises Cicero. Sweet, little Luka is not as innocent as he seems. “Truly, Cicero is the one who is interested. Sweet Lumen is just being supportive in her own way.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding his understanding. “That is good-- _relieving_ , actually.” He runs his hands through his messy, blond hair, staring down at the fur pelts lining the ground. “Miss Lumen does not mind if we…” the mage trails off, but the implication is clear.

“Cicero assures you, sweet Lumen does not mind.”

Luka wets his lips, his fingers nervously grabbing at his leather gauntlet. His eyes finally meet Cicero’s, and there is an intensity in the Nord’s stare that Cicero has never seen before. For once, Cicero wonders how to proceed next. He must remember that Luka is still healing, and that the young, shy mage would probably prefer more privacy than the tent offers. That aside, Cicero is _exhausted_. He is of no use to anyone when he is this tired. Too blunt. Not clever enough. Too much of a tired, old Keeper, and not a nimble, jester-assassin.

Cicero’s wandering thoughts come to a halt when he notices Luka shuffling closer to him. The mage reaches out to grab to collar of his motley, and pauses to rub the rich fabric between his gloved fingers. His gaze drifts from Cicero’s eyes and to his mouth. He had thought Luka would be entirely too shy to take the initiative. But with Cicero’s own interest made apparent, and with Lumen’s tacit permission given, Luka’s worries seem to have washed away.

In the moment of stillness where Luka seems trapped between action and inaction, Cicero takes the chance to study him. He is pale and youthful, with just a peppering of freckles along his cheeks and across the bridge of a thin, delicate nose. A nose that is slightly crooked from being broken and healed at some point in Luka’s murky past. 

His study of Luka’s features is interrupted when Luka asks, “May I?”

Cicero nods, agreeing to the vague question, rather than pressing Luka for details. He is rewarded by the mage moving even closer and tentatively pressing their lips together. Soft, thin lips move against his own in a kiss that is ridiculously chaste until Luka’s tongue slides against his lower lip, begging for entrance.

The kiss is both skillful and sloppy. There is a youthful eagerness that hinders his technique, but it is not unpleasant. It is all Cicero can do to continue reminding himself that _Luka is healing_ , and he needs to stop this before it goes any further. Cicero pulls away just enough to break the kiss, though it pains him to do so. Because Luka is so sweet and eager, and Cicero is fairly certain he would do just about anything he asks him to do. But it would not do to get caught up in the moment and exacerbate his injuries.

“I’m sorry,” Luka whispers, backing away. “I have wanted to do that for a while. I was just afraid that you didn’t want to, or that Miss Lumen would kill me in my sleep if I tried. It seems quite dangerous to trifle with the Listener’s lover.” Luka takes a breath, attempting once more to shove his messy hair out of his eyes. “Are you sure she doesn't mind?”

Cicero laughs. “How many times must Cicero tell you? Lumen truly does not mind.”

“That’s good,” Luka says, awkwardly fidgeting with his armor. “I like Miss Lumen and I like living. I don’t want her to be angry with me.”

“It would be funny to see her chasing you out of the Sanctuary with a rolling pin,” Cicero says, laughing to himself. “But I cannot see her playing the role of an angry, jilted housewife.”

Luka winces. “Don’t joke about things like that! It’s funny in theory, sure. But an angry housewife is nothing to laugh about when you’re actually being chased by one.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

“I do.”

“Cicero would like to hear this story,” he says, finding it a little hard to imagine Luka playing the role of someone's bit on the side. But, as Cicero is finding out, the mage is full of surprises.

“It’s _really_ embarrassing and-- Oh! Is that Eola calling us to dinner? I think it is.” Luka almost trips over his feet as he stands and darts out of the tent. Cicero laughs at his graceless exit, but he follows suit. He’ll have plenty of time to wheedle the story out of Luka, but for now his growling stomach is the more pressing matter.

* * *

The following morning, Madanach is nowhere to be found. Not that Lumen truly needs anything from him, but she did think it would be polite to say goodbye before leaving. Luka seems reluctant to leave, and he’s asked her no less than ten times if he could take a moment to explore the camp. Normally, Lumen would not deny Luka the chance to sate his curiosity, but it doesn’t seem safe. Despite Madanach’s hospitality, the other Forsworn seem reluctant to have outsiders skulking around while they deal with Thongvor. Apparently what they have in store for him is private, and Lumen is content to give them their privacy.

The journey home is unpleasant, not that anyone is surprised when the gentle rains of the Reach turn into a frozen rain that eventually becomes snow as they travel further north. After hours of poor weather and having to deal with the occasional bandit or hungry wolf, the Black Door is a welcome sight. Its steady, ephemeral heartbeat is a calming sound, as is the hissing voice that welcomes the assassins home.

But home is not as comforting as it usually is. Once inside the Sanctuary, Lumen’s sense of calm vanishes. She runs her fingers along the cuts scattered across the front of her armor. Souvenirs from being pulled across a floor littered with broken glass and shards of wood. The armor would need to be repaired-- or replaced. Her new armor is still waiting for her in the forge, and for one reason or another, she will have to face Arnbjorn.

She won’t kiss him this time, that’s for sure. She should probably apologize for that. Kissing him was a foolish, rash thing to do. But somehow that damn wolf has managed to get under her skin. He is nice when he wants to be, funny when he doesn’t mean to be, and she supposes he is handsome enough for a human. And there is something enticing about him when he stumbles into the Sanctuary after a hunt as a wolf; clothes ragged and torn, leaves in his hair, and blood beneath his nails.

“This is stupid,” she murmurs, picking at a frayed bit of leather.

“What is stupid, Miss Lumen?”

She stiffens at Luka’s voice. She’d watched Eola leave the overlook to go find Cyril, but she didn’t realize Luka and Cicero had lingered behind with her. “Er, well--” she is tempted to simply say _nothing_ , but Cicero always hounds her whenever she says that. Saying ‘nothing’ almost always implies that _something_ is definitely wrong.

Cicero pokes at the tears in her armor. “You should really get this fixed, dear.”

“I know. But getting my armor fixed means I have to talk to Arnbjorn and he’s so--” confusing, infuriating, enticing… There are a hundred ways she could describe him. “Unpleasant.”

“He would be more pleasant if he could take care of that bone he’s been aching to bury,” Cicero says with a grin.

“I’ve never seen our brother with a bone. Do werewolves even chew on bones?” Luka asks, then his eyes grow wide and he gasps. “Oh, wait! By ‘bone’ you mean his-- _Oh_. Right. I get it now.”

Lumen buries her face in her hands and laughs. Embarrassed by Cicero’s innuendo and tickled by Luka’s confusion. “You’re terrible,” she says, and if nothing else, her mood has lightened a little.

“No. Cicero is _right_.” He pats Lumen on the back. “Perhaps you could improve our brother’s foul mood by giving him a helping hand,” he says while making a very rude gesture.

Luka covers his mouth and laughs at that. While Lumen excuses herself from a conversation that is rapidly going downhill. She retreats to the safety of her bedroom. But even a hot bath and a fresh change of clothes does little to ease her nerves. She’s a bit nervous, and she’d be less nervous if she knew where she stood with Arnbjorn. He’s willing to help her with this Dragonborn business, he’s told her that much. But just because he’s willing to help her save the damned world doesn’t mean she should go shoving her tongue down his throat.

With a sigh, Lumen gathers her old, shrouded armor in her arms and heads to the forge. There, she finds Arnbjorn hammering a blade into shape. Sparks fly from the glowing shard of metal with each strike of the hammer. While it is interesting to see the creation of a weapon, it’s the flex of the muscles in Arnbjorn’s arms that really grab her attention.

“Hey, tidbit,” he says without looking up. “How did the contract go?”

“Oh-- uh, it went well.” She curses at herself for staring. “My armor could use some repairs, though.”

“You have new armor,” he says, picking up the glowing hot blade with a pair of tongs and dipping it into the slack tub.

Lumen winces at the hissing steam that fills the room and filters up to the vents in the ceiling. “I still want to keep my old armor,” she says, running her fingers across the soft, worn leather, tracing a large cut, flaked with dried blood. “There’s no reason to toss it out, is there?”

Arnbjorn sets the freshly forged blade aside and takes the armor from her hands. “What happened to it?” he asks, examining the damage.

“Some Nord the size of a Frost Troll tried to kill me,” she says breezily. “No big deal.”

“No big deal?” He turns his eyes to her. “There’s blood on these.”

“It’s just a few scratches.” She waves her hand in the air, as if she could dispel his worries with a mere gesture. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

He folds the armor and sets it aside. “If you really want to keep your old armor, then I’ll fix it for you,” he says, and then he motions to a workbench, where her new armor is waiting. “But you should try the new armor on so I can make adjustments.”

“Now?”

Arnbjorn folds his arms across his chest. “Yes, now,” he says irritably. “The sooner I make the adjustments, the sooner we can go fetch that damned Elder Scroll-- _What_? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Okay, well-- I should go get Cicero in case I need some help--”

“Gods, no,” Arnbjorn growls. “I won’t have any peace when we’re stuck in that ruin together. I only ask for a little now.” He shakes his head, as if having to be around Cicero for weeks is unbearable to him. “Does he really have to come?”

“Yes,” Lumen says firmly. “He’s coming and so is Luka, and so are you.”

“I don’t mind the kid so much. He’s a bit odd, but he’s quiet when you tell him to be,” Arnbjorn says. “Anyway, go try your armor on. I’ll help you into it if you need it.”

“But, last time you didn’t want to help me at all, and then I kissed you and I probably shouldn’t have. And then things got weird and-- um, I guess I’m sorry about that.” Lumen winces at the jumble of words and her hapless apology. She buries her face in her hands and silently prays for Sithis to open a hole to the Void beneath her feet, because if he doesn’t then she is certain she will die of embarrassment. “Shit. That sounded so much better in my head.”

“There’s no need to apologize, tidbit,” he says, chuckling softly. “It will take more than a kiss to offend me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t _want_ it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Wait,” she begins, trying to ignore the faint flicker of annoyance building within her. Had he just be toying with her the last time? “Why else would you push me away? Why is it suddenly okay for you to help me with my armor? What is so damn different about today?”

Arnbjorn grins at her, amused at her irritation. “For one, it’s mid-afternoon. For another, when the moons are out tonight they will not be full,” he says, his grin fading as he continues. “That night, the moons were full and my wolf was more in control than I was. I didn’t want us to do something we would regret.”

“I didn’t realize being a werewolf changed more than just your appearance,” she admits, grateful that Arnbjorn seems to treasure their friendship enough to protect it.

“It affects your personality more than you might expect,” he tells her. “It’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t a werewolf. But on those nights my instincts are in control, which is great if I’m hunting, but not so great when--” He doesn’t finish explaining, but he doesn’t need to. They are both well aware of what would've happened if he hadn’t stopped things.

“And you’re fine now?” she asks. “You feel normal?”

“I feel fine. Now quit stalling and put your armor on.”

“Fine, but you need to guard the door and make sure no one comes in. It wouldn’t do for an initiate to catch the Listener with her pants down,” she says with a grin. “I’ll let you know if I need any help, wolfy.”

“Do _not_ call me that,” he grumbles, moving to stand near the door with his back turned to her.

“Why not?” she asks, quickly shucking her tunic and breeches. “You call me ‘tidbit’ all the time.”

“That’s different.”

She is quiet for a moment as she admires her new armor. It’s designed much like her old shrouds, but the leather is a higher quality, and the buckles are steel rather than iron. The armor is a deep, rich black, and the leather is thick and supple with an enchantment humming across the surface. “Who enchanted these for you, pup?” she asks, stepping into the tight, leather breeches first.

“Don’t call me _that_ , either,” he says, feigning irritation. “Luka enchanted them when you and Cicero were picking up that contract from Madanach.”

Lumen grunts, eventually tugging the pants in place and lacing them. Next is the top half of her armor, which is just as tight, but the leather feels smooth and cool against her skin. As tight as it is, she is loathe to complain about it. Much.

“What is taking so damn long?” Arnbjorn demands.

“It’s all these belts!” Lumen snaps. “It takes me forever to do this on my own, usually Cicero does it for me!”

Arnbjorn mutters something to himself and walks over to her. He swats her hands away and quickly buckles the belts along her mid-section and sides. “He can’t babysit you forever, you know,” he grouses. “It wouldn’t kill you to be a little self-reliant.”

“I have you for those times when he isn’t around,” she says, smirking when Arnbjorn frowns at her. “Wolfy.”

“I’m going to throw you into the forge,” he says distractedly, because he’s more concerned with inspecting the fit of the armor than arguing with her about pet-names. “How does it feel?”

“Good-- No, it’s more than good. It feels perfect.” Lumen looks down at herself. “Are there more pieces? Boots? Gloves?”

“Boots, gloves, and pauldrons,” he says, moving around the room to gather said items. “Put your hair up. It will probably get tangled in the pauldrons.”

“I need a string,” she says, watching Arnbjorn pile the additions to her armor on a table next to her.

Lumen’s inspection of said items is short-lived, because Arnbjorn is standing behind her and threading his fingers through her hair. She clenches her jaw, because the feeling of his hands in her hair is doing funny things to her stomach. After brushing his fingers through her hair more times than necessary, he ties her hair into a loose ponytail. But he doesn’t stop touching her after that. His fingers move from her hair and down to her neck, his calloused thumbs grazing across the bone just behind her ear, drawing a shiver from her.”

“What are you doing?” she hisses. If she isn’t allowed to kiss him, then he isn’t allowed to do _that_.

He chuffs a laugh. “Just trying to help,” he says. The warm, playful lilt in his voice is something she’s never heard before, but she thinks she’d like to hear it again. Even if it means she has to endure more teasing just to hear it.

Once her pauldrons, gauntlets and boots are on, Lumen inspects her appearance in a looking glass. She is both surprised and pleased at what she sees. Her ponytail is loose and sloppy, the unkempt hair giving her a wild appearance that works perfectly with her new armor. The leather is as black as the Void, the darkness offset by the black and red pauldrons, gauntlets and boots, all of which have been designed in the Daedric style and hum with the power of the Daedra hearts used to craft them.

“It’s fucking _perfect_ ,” she whispers, her fingers dancing over the spikes on a gauntlet. “I love it.”

“I figured since you are so attached to those Daedric daggers I’d craft some armor to reflect that,” he says, smiling at her. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I could hug you right now,” she says, still admiring her appearance. “But I’m covered in spikes.”

“Maybe later, when you’re less likely to puncture a vital organ,” he says, a smile still on his lips as he turns away from her and resumes his work at the forge. “You know where to find me.”

* * *

As it turns out, Lumen does not return to the forge to give Arnbjorn the hug she promised. Arnbjorn doesn’t really strike her as the affectionate type. Not in the way Cicero is, anyway. How does one simply give a hug anyway? With Cicero, it’s easy. He’ll hug _anyone_. But Arnbjorn seems like he’d be more likely to snap someone’s head off before eagerly returning an embrace.

Rather than dole out any undue affection, Lumen keeps herself busy by helping Luka gather supplies for their excursion to Blackreach. She would prefer to stay at home and stay as far away from that stupid ruin as she possibly can. But she can’t. Not when there’s a big, ugly, bastard of a dragon resurrecting his fallen brethren and wreaking havoc across the frozen wasteland she now calls home.

Lumen surveys the supplies they have laid out in the foyer of the Sanctuary; bedrolls, multiple water skins, canvas bags for storing food, rope, bandages, dozens of potions, torches, lamps, and about a hundred other miscellaneous items she never would think to keep on her person.

“Are you sure we’re going to need all this crap?”

“Er-- yes,” Luka says, nervously wringing his hands. “We will need all of it if we are to survive. We might be in that ruin for a week, but it could end up being two or three! I have no idea how large or dangerous it is.”

Babette steps into the foyer and adds even more potions to their already substantial pile. “This excursion of yours has effectively drained my stock of potions and ingredients.” She brandishes a slip of parchment at Lumen. “Be a lamb and go to the apothecary and pick up a few things for me. The old woman who works there refuses to sell me any Void salts or Nightshade, or any other ingredients she deems ‘dangerous’ for little girls. I would appreciate it if you would pick these items up. If you don’t, I fear I may be tempted to bleed the old bat dry and steal her entire stock.”

“Uhh… sure.” Lumen takes the parchment and balks at the ingredients. “I understand why you need Void salts and Nightshade, but what could you possibly need twenty live bees for?”

“For alchemy things,” Babette says, turning away so quickly her skirt whirls around her. “Thank you, Listener. You are most kind.” With that, the tiny vampire scurries from the foyer before Lumen can argue.

“May I go with you, Miss Lumen?” Luka asks. “I love visiting apothecaries! Even if I am not shopping for myself, I just like to browse.”

“Sure,” she says, looking him over. “Just do me a favor and change into something that doesn’t scream ‘I kill people for money’.”

“Oh!” Luka glances down at his loose, shrouded robes. “Oh, yes. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? I’ll be right back!”

Lumen watches the mage run off to change, and she glances over Babette’s list of ingredients one more time before folding it and sipping it into the pocket of her trousers. She smoothes the wrinkles from her faded, green tunic as she waits for Luka to return.

Luka rounds the corner, and Lumen almost doesn’t recognize him in trousers and a loose, linen tunic. He looks abnormally _normal_. “I brought your cloak, Miss Lumen!” he says, draping her cloak around her shoulders before throwing his own on. “Are you ready?”

“I am now.” She smiles at Luka, only for the Nord to beam at her in return, and they both leave the warmth of the Sanctuary and step into the chilly Dawnstar air.

“Thank you again for allowing me to accompany you to Blackreach,” he says suddenly. “I know you are not looking forward to it, but I think it’s going to be so exciting!”

“You think everything is exciting,” she says, a hint of laughter to her words.

“ _Life_ is exciting! There’s so much to do, and see, and experience!”

“You’re very optimistic for an assassin.” Lumen glances up at him. “Does that have anything to do with some recent developments between you and my lecherous jester?”

Luka trips over his own feet. “You-- I--” he stammers before his brain finally catches up with his mouth. “It was only a kiss.”

“A kiss can be dangerous,” she says in a threatening tone, and for no other reason than to screw with her fellow assassin.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lumen!” Luka howls, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around her legs. “Please don’t kill me! Please don’t cast me out! I’ll keep my hands to myself, I promise!”

“Luka! For the love of--” she glares at a passerby for staring at them. So much for keeping a low profile. “I was only teasing you! It’s fine!”

Luka’s tenses his arms, adding to the already intense bearhug he has her legs wrapped in. He finally looks up at her, giving her the most adorably effective puppy dog eyes she’s ever seen. “Really? You truly don’t mind?” he asks. “Cicero said you didn’t but I-- I wasn’t sure.”

“Stand up!” She grabs him by his cloak and hauls him to his feet. “I can’t have a conversation with you while you’re kneeling in the dirt.”

He dusts himself off as he rises to his feet, shuffling awkwardly as if he fears Lumen may scold him. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “Even though Cicero said it was okay, I just keep thinking about how close you two are. I was worried you would be upset with me.”

“We _are_ close,” she admits, knowing that whatever dalliance she or Cicero may engage in, they will always find their way back to each other. “But, I don’t own Cicero. He is free to do what he wants, as am I.”

“I understand that now,” Luka murmurs. “I don’t mean to be so paranoid, but I have been on the receiving end of a rather fierce beating from an ex-lover’s very angry wife, and I do _not_ want to receive a beating from you. Or a stabbing. Or a Shouting, for that matter!”

“Tell me about this ex lover and his wife,” she demands, suddenly very curious. “This sounds like a great story.”

Luka groans. “But it’s so embarrassing!”

“I think the alchemy supplies can wait.” She hooks her arm with Luka’s, and walks past the apothecary’s shop without a second glance. “How about we head to the inn and share some embarrassing stories over a few flagons of ale?”

“Okay, but don’t tell Cicero,” Luka says, still looking a bit uncertain. “He’ll never let me live it down.”

“Don’t worry, Luka,” Lumen purrs. “It’ll be our little secret.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Lumen and friends were going to head out to Blackreach in this chapter. But it was getting really long and I wanted to consolidate Blackreach into one chapter. The good news is that the next chapter is halfway finished. :D


	31. Blackreach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mild violence, strong language (more so than usual), and smut. This chapter has everything! It’s also extra long. So go get some snacks.

They leave for Winterhold on a Morndas.

It is a miserable journey. The way to Alftand is off the main roads and has to be made on foot. Lumen is not made for trudging through knee deep snow and fighting against strong, blisteringly cold winds. She is made for lounging on plush divans and being hand-fed Jazbay grapes by half-naked men and women.

“I’m freezing my ass off,” she whines, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Luka, where is the entrance?”

Luka shields his eyes from a gust of icy wind. “It’s not much farther, Miss Lumen, I promise.”

“Poor Cicero cannot feel his toes,” the Keeper whimpers, clinging even closer to Lumen for warmth. “He may not make it!”

“Will you two stop crying and hurry up? If the kid says we’re getting close, then we’re getting close. So, move it!” With that, Arnbjorn grabs them both by their collars and half-drags, half-guides them through the deep snow and toward rickety, wooden catwalk.

“Be patient, brother,” Luka pleads. “They don’t have our natural tolerance for the cold.”

“And I don’t have your natural tolerance dealing with whining idiots,” Arnbjorn grouses, finally letting Cicero and Lumen go when they arrive at a wooden catwalk strung up over a chasm.

“This doesn’t seem safe,” Lumen says, staring in horror at the swaying bridge made of wood and rope.

“Not safe at all,” Cicero adds. “What if it breaks?”

“Then we all die horribly,” Arnbjorn snaps. “Did you not hear what the kid said earlier? The bridge leads to a cave in the ice. It’s probably the only way in.”

“The bridge has not been here that long,” Luka says, testing the rope. “It will be okay, Miss Lumen. Just don’t look down.”

Lumen tugs on Arnbjorn’s wrist. “You go first,” she orders. “You’re the heaviest. So if it holds you up, then it will hold the rest of us up.”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Arnbjorn heaves a sigh. “Fine,” he grumbles. He continues muttering a few choice obscenities that are drowned out by the wind as he moves further across the bridge. 

“Looks like the bridge is sturdier than you thought, sweet Lumen,” Cicero says, taking her hand. “Come with Cicero, he will not let you fall.”

Lumen groans, but she follows along behind him, and Luka follows behind her. It’s slow going, but after a few, harrowing minutes, the assassins finally make it across the makeshift catwalk and arrive at a crevice in the ice.

“I see some crates and barrels inside,” Luka says. “That’s probably a good sign, right?”

“Cicero wants to know what happened for the poor fools who left the crates and barrels here,” he says. “Are they alive? Dead? Deranged?”

“Only one way to find out,” Lumen sighs, following Luka inside the cave with Arnbjorn and Cicero trailing behind her.

The cave is a twisting series of corridors, littered with the remains of a previous exhibition. There are rations for them to pick through and add to their already substantial stock. Luka gathers a few interesting books and loots the bodies of two dead Khajiit. 

Finally, after hours of walking, they come to a large door made of heavy Dwemer metal. They pass through the door, which closes behind them with a hollow, metallic boom. The familiar sound sends an icy chill of fear zipping down her spine. She’s closed in. Cut off from the outside world. _Trapped_. She’d been fighting off this sensation since they first entered the cave hours ago. The feeling of the walls closing in around her, of the air growing thicker, of her own heart threatening to beat it’s way out of her chest.

_The door of the torture room closes, and a key slips into the lock on the other side, trapping her within the dark room that reeks of blood. She screams. Hours pass, and she’s still screaming because she can’t see. Because the floor is tacky with old blood mixing with the recently spilled blood of an Imperial woman who did not survive one of her master’s interrogations. She screams louder. Because there are rats and spiders and gods know what else living in this room, scavenging off the bits of Malrian’s prisoners that get left behind._

_“Master, please open the door!” she begs. “Don’t leave me here!”_

_Her voice echoes off the stone walls of the tiny, dark room. The room is positioned in the far corner of her master’s cellar, its only decorations are a well-used rack and a grate in the floor to drain the blood. She knows Malrian is gone. He’s probably back in his study, working on whatever he works on, and unable to hear her. But that knowledge does not keep her from screaming until her lungs burn and her throat is sore. It does not keep her from pounding on the door until her hands are bruised. It does not keep her from digging at the door until her fingertips are raw and bloody from the scrape of the wood and the breaking of her fingernails._

_She fights against the inevitability of her situation until she has no fight left. Until all she can do is submit to her master’s unshakable will, and to her own exhaustion. She ends up curled in a corner, shaking from the cave-like chill of the cellar and the terrible fact that her own mother died in this room, and she is likely sitting in a puddle of her dried blood._

“Shall we proceed, Miss Lumen?” Luka asks.

Lumen finally turns away from the closed door, knowing that her expression is too open and raw to be disguised as anything other than it is. They can see the fear in her eyes, and she just hopes they are all wise enough not to say anything about it.

“Yes,” she says, swallowing hard and forcing the meager contents of her stomach stay down. “Yes, let’s get moving.”

None of them buy her flimsy excuse, and Arnbjorn is the first to voice his doubt. “Are you going to be all right?” he asks. “We might be underground for weeks. It’s not too late for you to turn around if that’s going to be a problem.”

Gods, the putrid air within the ruin even smells just like that torture chamber. “It’s not a problem,” she says weakly. “I’m fine. Can we just move on, please? It _reeks_ in here.”

“It does smell terrible,” Cicero agrees, wrinkling his nose. “What _is_ that?”

“Falmer,” Arnbjorn says, grabbing his battle axe and motioning toward a dark doorway, with a pathway that slopes down. “They’re down there. I can hear the little bastards moving around.”

“You can?” Luka gasps. “Your sense of hearing is truly spectacular! I should like to become a werewolf someday, if only for the benefit of heightened senses.”

Arnbjorn snorts. “Trust me, kid. I am wishing I didn’t have a heightened sense of smell right now.”

“Oh, yes. I can see how that would be an issue at this particular moment,” Luka says, nodding and scratching at his chin. He’s completely calm and collected, as if a ruin filled to the brim with foul smelling, mutant elves is of little concern. “Would it help if we killed them all?”

“Yeah, I think it would.” Arnbjorn turns to address the group, but his cold, silver eyes are focused on Lumen. “Falmer can fight like any other elf. They use swords, bows, and some use magic. They tend to use poisons, and they never clean their blades, so if you get cut it will become infected. So, for the love of Sithis, be careful and pay attention.”

“In that case, Cicero suggests we proceed slowly and quietly,” Cicero says, his voice pitched low and his eyes focused on the doorway that leads to the dark, Falmer-infested depths below. “We might fare better if we catch them off guard.”

“For once, I agree with you.” Arnbjorn almost looks a little stunned at that. “Are you ready, tidbit?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Lumen trails her fingers across the Daedric blades strapped to her hips, but rather than reach for them, she reaches for Dragonbane instead. It will allow her to put more distance between herself and the disgusting creatures that live within the ruins. Although she does wish Arnbjorn wouldn’t treat her like she’s some kind of weakling. She can deal with disgusting creatures. She lived among bandits for a few years before coming to Skyrim, and bandits don’t have the best bathing habits. The Falmer stink, sure, but how bad can they really be?

The answer comes faster than she expects when a curious Falmer steps from the platform and into the little room where they are standing. By the gods. How could the Divines allow something that hideous to exist? And furthermore, how could anything still living smell like a ten day old corpse? The creature shrieks and comes running toward them with a jagged sword raised in the air, but he is quickly blasted with fire by Luka, and hacked in half by Arnbjorn. The commotion created by the tussle alerts the Falmer below, and their screeching and overpowering scent grows closer by the minute.

“Here they come!” Luka says excitedly, his hands alight with ethereal fire.

“Could you try not to sound so damn happy?” Lumen asks, holding her sword at the ready. “I’m starting to worry about you.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Lumen,” Luka says, the flames in his hands growing larger and brighter. “I just really like to set things on fire!”

Luka’s love of burning things alive certainly does prove useful at the moment. He sends a storm of fire sweeping toward the approaching Falmer, the force of the blast knocking some off the thin twisting platforms that lead to the chamber below, and immolating the rest of them. Unfortunately, setting a Falmer on fire does nothing to improve the smell.

* * *

The Falmer are wretched and vile, and _gross_. But they look enough like mer that Lumen does not have any issues approaching them and slaughtering them. She _does_ scream upon first seeing a chaurus-- something that none of her companions will soon let her forget. The Dwemer contraptions aren’t as frightening as Arnbjorn made them out to be. But the giant, Dwemer Centurion does prove to be quite the challenge. Luckily, Lumen is traveling with a large, axe-wielding werewolf who seems more than happy to destroy the machines.

When the assassins reach the end of what Luka speculates was an old, Dwarven cathedral, they find two humans bickering over something inconsequential. Lumen can only assume they are the last, lingering remnants of a doomed excursion. But they do not _linger_ for long. Cicero makes short work of them after they threaten his family, and he comes away from the skirmish with a new, pointy shield.

“Look at Cicero’s new shield! Cicero can stab _and_ smash with this!” He cackles gleefully as he attacks imaginary opponents.

Arnbjorn groans as he sits on the steps of a small platform. “How can he have so much energy?” he asks. “I’m beat.”

“I ask myself that same question all the time,” Lumen says, sitting down near Arnbjorn and trying to keep her eyes on Cicero’s imaginary battle, rather than the sight of bare, muscular thighs. Damn Arnbjorn and his need to wear his sacred armor of Hircine. It’s good armor, there’s no doubt about that. Anything given to you by a Daedric god is going to be well made. But does it have to show off so much skin? It’s highly distracting.

Cicero abandons his imaginary battle and skips over to Lumen. “Do not take this the wrong way, sweetness, but you look exhausted.”

“I _am_ exhausted,” she says.

“Then perhaps we should set camp and rest for a while? This area seems safe enough. I am certain we killed almost everything in the vicinity.”

Lumen isn’t sure if she’ll be able to sleep at all. They managed to kill hordes of Falmer and their rotten, little pets. But the Dwemer ruin is a noisy place. There’s the occasional hiss of steam of the loud, clanking of metal behind the large, stone walls. Amazing how the ancient machines of a long dead race still function after so much time. Despite the sounds of the machines, there is the occasional screech that sounds suspiciously like Falmer, although she hopes it’s nothing more than a squeaky gear in one of the machines.

The sound of hissing steam and the slide of stone upon stone grabs her attention, and she turns to see Luka activating some sort of device that moves the stones, turning them into a twisting staircase that descends into the darkened depths of what is probably another Falmer-infested nightmare.

“Is that the entrance to Blackreach?” she asks.

“I believe it is,” Luka says excitedly.

“Good, let’s go.” She starts to stand up, but is stopped by Cicero’s hand on her shoulder.

“You must rest,” he says, watching her closely. “You are exhausted. You said so, yourself!”

“He’s right,” Arnbjorn says, although he sounds a bit disgusted to be agreeing with Cicero again. “We don’t know what we’ll find down there. We need to rest. _You_ especially.”

“No,” she whines, rubbing her eyes and knowing that her foul mood is probably due to the fact that she’s so tired-- Oh, and that she’s in the very last place she ever wanted to be. “I just want to keep going so I can be done with this stupid Elder Scroll finding, dragon slaying bullshit so we can just get back to acting like fucking assassins again! The only thing that would make this better is if I can use that Elder Scroll to tell Auriel-- or Akatosh-- or _whatever_ his name is to go fuck himself and find someone else to do his damn dirty work!”

A silence falls over them when Lumen finishes her rant, but, as per usual, Cicero is the first to speak. “Cicero has not seen you slay a single dragon.”

“That doesn’t matter!” she shouts, then gasps when her _Thu’um_ breaks and the room around them trembles. Lumen clasps a hand over her mouth, remembering that the Greybeards once told her that her emotions could have an affect on her _Thu’um_ , but she’s never experienced it until now. Such things were not an issue until recently. Now she’s little more than a tightly wound ball of emotions that confuse and terrify her. Of love and lust. Of hate and anger, and so many more. All of which are completely out of control.

“Oh! What was that?” Luka asks. “I’ve heard you Shout once but that was something else entirely! Look! The light is still swaying!” He points up at the ceiling, looking happier than he has the entire time they’ve been in the ruin. Which is saying something considering Luka has practically been beside himself with glee.

“I’m glad one of us is happy about almost being buried alive,” Arnbjorn grouses. “Rein it in, tidbit. I’d rather not die down here.”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she whispers, horrified. “That’s never happened before.”

Cicero kneels beside her, resting his hand on the back of her neck. “I know you want to be done with this, but some things cannot be rushed. Blackreach has been down there for centuries, maybe more, and so has the Elder Scroll. It will still be there in a few hours.”

“You’re right,” she whispers, too afraid to speak any louder. “Okay, let’s take a break and rest for a while.” Cicero presses a kiss to her cheek and begins to help her out of her heavy pauldrons so she can rest comfortably.

Once her pauldrons, gauntlets, and daggers are removed, she spreads her hide bedroll on the floor. Her companions follow suit, all eager to settle in for the night-- morning-- _whatever_ time it is. She supposes time doesn’t really matter in a place hidden away from the sun.

Luka makes a small fire, while Cicero offers to take the first watch. Soon, all Lumen can hear is the soft breathing of her sleeping brothers and the sounds of the ruin. Pipes rattle in the walls, and some ancient machine thrums in the distance. She wants to sleep, to grab a few, blissful hours of unconsciousness and leave this wretched place behind. She _needs_ to sleep, because she is exhausted and on edge.

The chill of the stone floor seeps through her bedroll and into her bones. But its nothing compared to the chill of fear hanging over her. She lost control of her _Thu’um_ , and as much as she hates the responsibility that comes with wielding it, it is _her power_ and she has never lost control of it before. Her knowledge of the dragon language is basic at best, but ever since she learned she could Shout it always felt _right_. She’s never been frightened of it until now.

Lumen sits up and looks around their small campsite. Luka and Arnbjorn are already asleep; Luka is curled up on his side, snoring softly, while Arnbjorn is sprawled out on his bedroll, an arm thrown over his eyes. 

She is quiet when she walks to where Cicero sits at the bottom of the steps. He’s humming softly and running a whetstone across his favorite blade, but he stops when he senses Lumen standing behind him. 

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I can’t sleep,” she murmurs, settling down beside him, heedless of the cold, hard floor, and lays her head upon his lap.

She offers no further explanation, and he doesn’t ask for it. He sets his blade aside and begins to brush his fingers through Lumen’s hair. She closes her eyes. Comforted by Cicero’s warmth, his scent, and the sound of his voice humming a familiar, macabre tune.

* * *

Luka had been correct about the staircase being the way to Blackreach. The stairs that twist downward lead them to a small room with a pair of tall, golden doors. Lumen steps forward and pushes a door open without hesitation, stepping out into the cool, damp air of Blackreach. Cicero is right behind her, followed by Luka and Arnbjorn. Her feet seem to move of their own volition, carrying her down a small staircase and only stopping when she steps onto the spongy soil below.

Blackreach is vast and terrifying in its strange, otherworldly beauty. Giant mushrooms as tall as trees glow a pale, sickly blue, while fragile pink spores flicker through the air. It smells like a forest after a spring rain. The air is so thick with moisture, little droplets of dew begin to form on the metal parts of her armor.

“This place is so weird,” Lumen says, awestruck.

“Cicero must agree with that sentiment,” he says, coming to stand beside her. “But it is also very pretty.”

“And full of Falmer,” Arnbjorn growls, looking around cautiously. “So keep your voices down.”

Luka is the only one not speaking. He’s too busy inspecting the large, trunk-like stem of a mushroom. He cuts into it with a small knife, pulling a small chunk out and placing it into a glass jar. The stem bleeds a strange, thick, blue ichor which he collects into a separate jar.

“Luka,” Lumen hisses. “What are you doing?”

“Babette asked me to collect samples of interesting plants for her,” he whispers, tucking the jars into his knapsack and walking back to the group. “I agreed. She’s so smart and so _cute_ , I couldn’t say no!”

“She’s three-hundred years old,” Lumen says. “She’s hardly a little girl.”

“So? She’s still cute.” Luka pauses for a moment, his smile going a bit wan. “Although she did tell me if I called her ‘cute’ one more time, she’d scoop my eyeballs out with a sugar spoon and eat them. I doubt that was an idle threat, so please do not tell her I said that.”

“Are you two done?” Arnbjorn snaps. “Or are you just going to stand there and talk all day?”

“Yes, yes. Come on!” Cicero bounces on the balls of his feet, looking as impatient as ever. “Cicero wants to go exploring, and looting, and _stabbing_!”

“All right,” Lumen sighs, following Arnbjorn and Cicero, content to let them lead for a while. “Do you have any idea where the Tower of Mzark might be, Luka?”

“I don’t have a clue,” he says cheerfully. “But we will find it. It might help to get to a high vantage point so we can get a better look at the lay of the land.”

“Right. Find a tower so we can look for something else that looks like a tower.” Lumen’s gaze is everywhere but in front of her as they travel down a dirt pathway. Arnbjorn and Cicero can pay attention to the road as far as she’s concerned. There’s just so much to see. This place would be amazing if it weren't for the screams of the Falmer in the distance.

They walk for hours, only stopping so Luka can collect bits of plants. Her companions seem unfazed by all the walking, but Lumen is worn out. Her legs burn, her feet hurt, and even her mind is tired from constantly listening and looking for trouble. The hopelessness of her situation is starting to bear down on her. Blackreach is huge. It’s not like they can ask anyone for directions to Mzark, and if the buildings are labeled, it’s in a language none of them understand. Trying to find the Elder Scroll in a huge, ancient city is worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s _impossible_.

Arnbjorn holds up his hand, signaling for them to stop. “Falmer are coming,” he says quietly. “Get ready.”

Cicero giggles menacingly as he readies his ebony dagger along with his new shield. Lumen didn’t know he could fight using a sword-and-shield style, but Cicero is full of surprises. It seems there is very little he _can’t_ do.

She draws Dragonbane and mentally prepares herself to battle a swarm of Falmer. These swarms of murderous, mutant elves trying to kill them is getting rather old. She really misses the simplicity of murder. _“Once this is over, I can just be an assassin again,”_ she keeps telling herself. But the words come with less conviction the longer she remains underground.

A group of Falmer emerge from the shadows and the battle begins in earnest. Cicero and Arnbjorn hack through their enemies as if they were nothing, and even Lumen manages to disembowel one of the foul creatures when it gets too close.

Luka steps forward, raising his hands to call upon his magic. But rather than summon fire as he is wont to do, he summons a storm of lightning. Electrical magic tears through the air, striking one Falmer down before jumping to the next, and the next. The overheated air thunders as electricity arcs all around them. The familiar, terrifying scent of ozone startles Lumen and she stumbles, slipping down a small, muddy berm and rolling head over heels until she lands in a shallow pond. 

“Dammit,” she curses, disgusted with herself for still being afraid of electricity after all this time. Over a decade away from Malrian and his twisted affections, and she is still scared to death of one of the many ways he used to abuse her. The use of electricity was always his favorite.

She shoves her wet hair out of her face and looks around. The battle still rages above her, but down below there is an eerie silence. The glowing mists that float overhead cast the pond in a deep, dark shadow. “Well this is creepy,” she mutters, leaning against a chitinous shell for leverage and pushing herself to her feet. She pauses then, her fingers caressing the natural bumps and whorls in the shell. When her eyes finally adjust to the dim light, she realizes what it is-- a cocoon. And she is surrounded by them.

The shell beneath her hand begins to crack. “Oh, shit,” she gasps, grabbing Dragonbane and scrambling away from the water. The cracking of one shell seems to trigger the others, and Lumen tries to climb up the muddy berm and get away from the horrible insects before they hatch. But she cannot get a grip on the soggy, unstable ground, and when she hears the first hiss of an hungry, newly hatched chaurus, she knows she has no choice but to fight.

She sucks in a deep breath and turns around. The Fire Breath Shout is at the forefront of her mind, ready to be unleashed. But when all the cocoons explode at once, the Shout dies in her throat and rather than Shouting as a proper Dragonborn should-- she screams. Despite her overwhelming fear, she is able to take out an approaching chaurus, but not before it spits sticky, acidic poison at her. She manages to avoid most of the spray, but her leg is hit and she can smell the acid eating away at her leathers. There’s little she can do. There is no time to stop and clean the acid off, not when she’s got a dozen chaurus bearing down on her.

A strong hand grips her arm and pulls her up, dragging her through the mud and the muck. Before Lumen can see her savior, she is temporarily blinded by a storm of fire that surrounds the approaching horde. A cacophony of shrieking follows, along with the sickening smell of burning chitin.

“Thanks,” she gasps when she’s pulled to her feet. “Thank you-- shit--” she glances down at her armor, the leather along her thigh sizzling and bubbling as the acid eats through to her skin. She grabs her waterskin and splashes water across the affected area, washing the acid away and soothing her now burnt skin.

“Lumen! Sweet Lumen, are you all right?” Cicero asks, grabbing her by the arms and staring her in the eyes. He’s terrified. The look in his eyes and the tremble of his hands tells Lumen all she needs to know.

“Yes, I’m fine. I--” she hesitates, not wanting to mention the true reason why she fell. “I lost my balance.”

Cicero expression shifts from one of terror to one of fury in an instant, and the fingers around her arms tighten to a painful degree. “You must be more careful, Listener! What is Cicero to do if he loses you? What are any of us to do? It’s not as if Listeners grow on trees!”

“It was an accident!” Lumen snaps, struggling against his grip. “I didn’t know there was a nest of those things down there!”

He loosens his grip on her, and the frown fades from his face. “Cicero supposes accidents happen,” he says, sounding more weary than usual. “But you cannot scare your poor Cicero like that, sweet Lumen.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’ll be more careful.”

“You’re sorry?” Arnbjorn snarls. “You almost get yourself killed and that’s all you have to say for yourself?”

Lumen clenches her jaw. She can deal with Cicero’s outbursts. But Arnbjorn’s, too? Great. “I don’t know what else to say,” she admits. “I said it was an accident.”

“It was stupid and careless! Do you ever take a damn moment to actually think about your actions and who they might affect?”

“I--” Lumen is struck silent. That is not rage etching across Arnbjorn’s features-- but fear.

“I hate to interrupt,” Luka says meekly. “But all this noise is attracting a lot of attention and I think it might be a good idea to barricade ourselves in that little building over there.”

He is right, the sound of approaching Falmer is almost deafening, and they seem to be coming from all directions. Lumen, Cicero and Arnbjorn follow Luka down a pathway that leads to what looks like an old military fort, or a guard house.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Lumen asks.

“It’s safer than it is out here,” Luka tells her. “Come on.”

* * *

A quick check of the old, Dwemer fort proves Luka right. It is definitely safer than outside. There are none of those horrid spider-like machines, no Falmer, and no chaurus. 

Cicero and Luka are busy barricading the doors and checking the structure for any other possible ways in. Arnbjorn is... somewhere. Lumen doesn’t know where, and she’s not sure if she cares. It had been embarrassing enough to scream like a weakling when all the chaurus hatched at once, but to be yelled at by Cicero _and_ Arnbjorn? That had been too much for her already wounded ego.

Within the fort, there is a large bedroom with seven stone beds, but Lumen does not think she’d feel comfortable sleeping where the long-dead Dwemer once did. The front room seems like a better place to sleep. It is large and barren except for some rubble, and a pair of doors that lead to a balcony. So after spreading out her bedroll, she places her armor on it and digs through her pack for something to patch it with.

“Damn it,” she sighs, quickly abandoning her task. She’s too angry and embarrassed to focus on sewing. She’s terrible at it, anyway. It would make more sense to ask Arnbjorn or Cicero to fix it, but she can’t bring herself to do it. 

Lumen stands, brushing dust from her thin, linen underarmor as she makes her way to the large double doors that lead to the small balcony. She opens a door just a fraction and peers out at the gathering of Falmer outside. They are skulking around and looking for the source of the earlier commotion, but they don’t seem to have a clue where the assassins are hiding. The Falmer will probably lose interest when they find nothing, and she and her family will be safe. She had not doomed them all with her earlier cowardice, at least.

“What are you doing?” Arnbjorn’s angry voice hisses, and he yanks her away from the door, which eases closed all on its own.

She pulls away from Arnbjorn. “I just wanted to see what was going on out there,” she says, folding her arms and leaning against a nearby wall.

“The Falmer haven’t figured out that we’re in here,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her. “I think I would like to keep it that way.”

“You act like I was planning to invite them in,” she snaps. “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

Something in his expression softens. “I don’t think you’re stupid, tidbit. I think you’re careless. There’s a difference.” He glances down at her leg. “How’s the burn?”

“Annoying, but I think I’ll live,” she says, picking at the hole the acid burnt into her trousers. Her skin is red and raw where the acid touched it, but it will heal in a matter of days.

“Why haven’t you put anything on it?” he asks.

“It’s a reminder to be more careful,” she says quietly. 

Arnbjorn steps closer to her. “Now that truly is a stupid idea,” he says. “There’s no reason for you to be in pain.”

“I’m not in pain,” she says, knowing she’s being unreasonably obstinate, but not caring. “It’s annoying, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Really?” Arnbjorn reaches down, pressing his fingers against the raw skin of her leg, drawing a hiss from Lumen. “I think otherwise. I think it hurts and you’re too damn proud to admit it.”

Lumen shoves his hand away. “Well it hurts when you do that!” she snaps, gritting her teeth against the raw, burning pain now crawling across her flesh. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Just proving a point,” he smirks. “Follow me.”

Lumen mutters a few choice curse words and follows Arnbjorn. He leads her to the room next to where she’d chosen to sleep. The room was obviously some kind of war room back when the Dwemer still existed. It’s an enormous room with a large, round table that is surrounded by stone chairs. Arnbjorn’s pack has been haphazardly tossed onto the table, and Lumen guesses he’d planned to sleep in there. Maybe the room full of stone beds gave him the creeps too.

He pats the table and says, “Sit.”

“Yes, sir,” Lumen mutters, not bothering to hide her annoyance at being ordered around. She perches on the edge of the table and watches Arnbjorn rummage through his pack. “What are you looking for?”

“This.” He pulls a small tin from his pack. “It’s a salve made with Frost Salts. It’s not specifically made for acid burns, but it should help. Sometimes these old ruins have vents that spew hot steam. I got burned pretty badly when I was younger, and I figured something like that might happen to one of us here.”

“What would we do without Babette?” Lumen asks, hoping to distract herself. She makes to grab for the tin, but Arnbjorn is already unscrewing the lid. He clearly intends to apply the salve himself. The thought of his hands on her bare thigh is both nerve-wracking and exciting all at the same time.

“We would die of a multitude of different injuries, I’m sure,” he says with a smile. “But she didn’t make this. I did.”

“Another trick you learned from your time with the Companions?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at her leg. “Did you bring another pair of underarmor?”

“I did,” she answers, watching him carefully.

“Good.” And without further warning, he grabs the edges of the fabric that had burnt away and tears it, exposing more of her thigh.

“Hey! Just because I brought more doesn’t mean I want to see these destroyed!”

“I don’t have much of this and I’d like to get more of it on the burn than your pants, so stop complaining,” Arnbjorn says, a trickle of irritation creeping into his voice. Despite the harshness of his tone, his hands are gentle when he touches her. He is careful not to press too hard as he spreads the cooling salve across the irritated skin.

Lumen sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. Not because it hurts, but because Arnbjorn’s touch is waking every nerve in her body. He is _so close_ , and his hands feel _so good_ , and she can’t do a damned thing about it because she vowed not to kiss him again. But things are about to get very awkward if his sense of smell is as keen as he claims it is. Because the flush of heat coming over her has nothing to do with her injury, but it has _everything_ to do with her unbidden arousal.

“Am I hurting you?” 

“Nope,” she says stiffly.

“Are you sure?” he asks, glancing up at her.

“Yep,” comes another strained reply.

Arnbjorn’s scowls at her. “Would it kill you to form a full sentence?” he asks. As soon as the words are out of his mouth something in his expression shifts. His silver eyes darken as his nostrils flare, no doubt picking up the redolent scent of pheromones.

Her fingers curl around the lip of the table. It won’t be the Falmer that kill her and leave her to rot in Blackreach, it’ll be her own mortification. She squeezes her eyes shut, because she cannot bear to look at him.

“Tidbit,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

“No,” she whines. 

He sighs, wiping his hands on a scrap of material from her tattered trousers before saying, “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not, so stop being so damn nice about it,” she snaps, reaching for anger, because she’d rather be pissed off than embarrassed. She’d rather push him away than be rejected again. “It’s weird when you’re nice.” 

“You want me to stop being nice?” he asks, challenge thick in his voice. Lumen’s eyes fly open when she feels Arnbjorn’s fingers curling into the hair at the nape of her neck. He looms over her, and he’s so close she can feel the heat of his body and his breath. “Is this better?”

She should say no, but she doesn’t want to. The force of his touch has sparked the embers of her lust into a full blown inferno, and if he doesn’t do something about it _right now_ she might be consumed within her own flames. “Yes,” she gasps. “Much better.”

He kisses her then. Assaulting her mouth with firm lips, teeth and tongue. Lumen moans against his mouth, his savage kisses driving her wild. Though she had vowed not to kiss him again, she supposes it’s very different if he kisses her. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t want to think about it, because Arnbjorn’s arm is curling around her, his hand splaying against her lower back and tugging her body flush against his. He shifts his body so that her uninjured thigh is between his legs, and the heavy evidence of his desire is pressing against it.

“Tell me what to do,” he says in between kisses, his hand leaves her hair and comes to rest on her hip. “Tell me what you want.”

It almost pains her to hear the uncertainty in his voice. They are both still haunted by a night that happened many months ago, where they were so cruel to one another. It was ages ago, but the pain still lingers, and Lumen hopes they will finally move past it. 

“Touch me,” she says, leaning her head back when his mouth finds her neck. His sharp canines scrape against her flesh, drawing a shiver out of her. She grabs the hand on her hip, guiding it to her stomach before letting him do the rest. Arnbjorn needs no further instruction, and his hand dips beneath the waistband of her trousers. He growls against her neck when two of his fingers slip into the wetness between her legs. Lumen groans at the long awaited contact and she angles her hips forward so his fingers can plunge deeper inside.

She is so pent up, he has her coming undone in a matter of seconds. Heat blossoms between her legs as she curls inward, her body tensing around his fingers and her cry muffled by his chest. 

“Feel better, tidbit?” he asks, grunting softly when she reaches beneath the fur tasset of his armor to stroke him through his loincloth. For all that she cursed his revealing armor before, she is hard pressed to find a flaw in it now.

“Fuck me” she says, tugging at his loincloth. “Now.”

Arnbjorn pulls away just a fraction. “What was that?”

“I said--” words fail her as Arnbjorn slowly licks her essence from his fingers. Long, slow, strokes of a dexterous tongue that curls slightly around each finger, followed by him sucking the last drops from his fingertips.

“You were saying?” he asks, a smug grin curling across his lips.

“Holy shit,” comes her intelligent reply. 

Arnbjorn’s grin grows wider and more wolfish. “There is nothing holy about what I’m going to do to you.” With that, he yanks her trousers and smallclothes down in one motion, exposing her to the cool air. He unhooks the tasset of his armor, letting it fall to the floor along with his loincloth.

Lumen has little time to admire, because Arnbjorn is setting her back on the table, and pressing his length into the heat between her legs. Gods, how long had they been wanting this and denying it? Too damn long. She doesn’t know if this is a good idea, but at the moment, she could care less. She lies back on the table, wrapping her legs around his hips and not bothering to contain the moan that escapes her when he slides his full length inside. 

He takes a breath to steady himself, placing his hand on her hip and the other resting just above her mound as he begins to thrust. The hand above her mound slides down just enough so that his thumb can work between her legs. Lumen grabs his wrist simply so she can have something to hold onto, while her other hand fists in her own hair. She bites her lip to quiet herself, because she can hardly stop the pathetic, little noises she’s making, and she’ll be _damned_ if she screams so loud the Falmer hear.

“You don’t have to be so quiet, tidbit,” he says, his voice low and ragged as he picks up the pace. The room around them rings with the obscene slap of skin upon skin. Lumen whimpers, her legs shaking as she feels her release growing closer. The fingers gripping her hip dig into her flesh as Arnbjorn says, “Louder.”

She growls, because her release is _so close_ she can barely stand it. She can feel her inner muscles trembling with an orgasm that Arnbjorn seems content to draw out. All logical thought is rushing from her head and she calls him a filthy name when she finally does come. Her back arches off the table as her body squeezes around him, pulling a vicious curse out of him as Lumen cries out. Arnbjorn bows over her, his teeth finding her neck and his blunt nails scraping against the tabletop as he spills into her with a long, low groan. Her hands are scrabbling at his back, torn between excitement and shock at being bitten.

Seconds pass, and they do not move. His teeth ease from her stinging skin, only to be replaced by lips determined to chase the pain away. Lumen finds no complaint with the gentle kisses or the soft scrape of his beard. Nor does she mind that he’s still buried inside her, softening, but not withdrawing. Not yet.

“Sorry,” he says as he pulls away. “It’s a--”

“It’s a werewolf-thing, right?”

“Kind of,” he says, looking a bit sheepish. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she says, mourning the loss of contact when he slowly pulls free. “I’m not going to be running around on all fours during the next full moon am I?”

Arnbjorn laughs softly. “No. Lycanthropy isn’t transferred like that,” he says, breathing a deep sigh. “But don’t ask me to infect you. I won’t do it.”

Lumen falls silent while they dress. She watches Arnbjorn very carefully. Taking note of his slow movements and how he won’t look at her. Her stomach coils into knots. Is he already regretting this? “Hey,” she says, straightening her clothes. “Are you okay?”

He fastens the fur tasset to his chestplate, and finally turns to face her, a slow, sad smile creeping across his lips. “I’m fine,” he says, though he sounds anything but. “It’s just been a long time since--”

“Don’t give me that,” Lumen says. “I recall having to listen to you rut a bard all night. That was only, what? Two or three months ago?”

“If you would let me finish,” he says, straining to keep his voice even. He steps closer to her, brushing his fingers through her hair and staring at a point just over her shoulder, rather than looking her in the eyes. “The bard was nothing more than me needing to fulfill a physical need.”

“Okay…”

“You’re more than a quick lay, tidbit,” he says, and Lumen’s body stiffens at that admission. Oh gods, no. He is _not_ trying to ruin the moment with a confession of love is he? A look of terror must have etched its way across her face, because Arnbjorn takes one look at her and starts laughing. “I’m not in love with you--”

“Thank the gods,” she breathes.

“But I do care about you.” He runs his hand through his hair, looking perturbed. “I just don’t know what to call it.”

“It’s called being friends, you dumbass,” Lumen says, trying hard not to laugh at him.

Arnbjorn frowns at her. “Do friends usually do what we just did?”

“It’s more common than you think,” she says, and she does laugh then. “You’re kind of a prude.”

“You think I’m a prude?” he asks, his brows lifting in amusement. 

“Kind of,” Lumen says, unable to stop smiling. 

The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher, his grin turning into something more menacing. “In that case, I’m looking forward to proving you wrong.”

Lumen swallows hard, because she’s looking forward to being proven wrong as well. This new development in their friendship is a little frightening, but only because it’s new and unexplored. She is eager to continue exploring it, and to move past all the pain they had caused each other in the past.

* * *

A week underground passes within the blink of an eye. The only way for Lumen to tell time is by Luka’s estimations and by Arnbjorn’s intrinsic sense of the moons. She never thought of herself as a clock watcher until she was unable to tell time for herself. One would think a Wood Elf would have a keen sense of time just from the land around her, and it’s possible the wild Bosmer have that ability, but Lumen does not. And she has no desire to live as her wild brethren do simply to obtain that skill.

As oddly beautiful as Blackreach is, it’s dreadfully boring when there are no creatures attempting to kill them. Luka and Cicero have been entertaining themselves, at least. Luka has gathered so many samples for Babette, he had to ask Lumen to carry a few in her traveling pack, and Cicero has been picking up anything _shiny_ that isn’t nailed down. Arnbjorn seems content to remain on constant alert; always listening and watching for any sign of danger.

Lumen is grateful for her companion’s high spirits. Their antics and good humor are quite possibly all that keeps her from sinking down into the doldrums. She misses the sun, and she even misses Dawnstar! More specifically, the inn, where one can always find warm food, a drink, a song, and maybe even a glimpse of some rowdy patrons doing something unspeakable in a dark corner. She misses all the distractions that life on the surface offers. Down here, in the darkened depths of an ancient Dwemer land, there is nothing to do but _think_.

All she can think about are her worries. Namely, the Elder Scroll. Assuming she does find it, what can she do with it? Paarthurnax expects her to read it at the Time Wound. But can she? She doesn’t even know if it’s something her mortal eyes can discern, and even more concerning is the fact that most people go mad upon reading them. Will she? The Elder Scrolls are rumored to be fragments of creation, it stands to reason that one would go insane upon reading them.

“You seem awfully maudlin today,” Cicero says, jogging a little to catch up with her. “What is on your mind, sweetness? Perhaps Cicero can help.”

Lumen gives Cicero a half-hearted smile. “You’re sweet,” she says. “But there is nothing you can do.”

“Truly?” he asks. “There is nothing Cicero can do to ease your mind?”

“Not unless you can whisk me out of this horrible place and into the nearest inn,” she says. “I’m dying for a drink.”

“Cicero cannot do that, sweet Lumen.” He pushes his bottom lip out in a mock pout. “Pick a less impossible request and Cicero will do his best to fulfill it.”

“All right,” she sighs, looking ahead to Arnbjorn, who is a few paces ahead. “How about we take a break? We’ve been walking for hours.”

“That sounds good to Cicero,” he says, his voice falling flat. “But he will let you deliver to news to our surly brother, he has been rather snappish today.” A knowing grin forms on his lips when he turns his eyes to her. “Perhaps you could do something to improve his rotten mood, hmm? For poor Cicero’s sake?”

“I’m not doing anything to _anyone_ until we’ve all had a decent bath,” Lumen says, wrinkling her nose. Blackreach isn’t hot, and it isn’t cold. It’s cool and humid like an early spring morning in Cyrodiil. But even in mild weather, one can become a bit ripe after going days without a proper bath.

“I can hear you, you know,” Arnbjorn growls, stopping in his tracks and scowling at the two. “I’ll agree to stopping if you can keep your clown under control-- and where is the kid?”

“I’m here!” Luka steps out from behind a large boulder with his arms full of mushrooms. “Look what I found! I thought perhaps we could eat these along with our rations,” he says cheerfully. “I don’t know about you but I am sick to death of hard cheese and stale bread.”

Cicero eyes the mushrooms warily. “Are they safe?”

“Oh, yes! Quite safe. I ate some myself just to make sure. No hallucinations, no vomiting, no nothing!”

Arnbjorn pinches the bridge of his nose. “Kid, do you remember what we talked about the other day?”

“Yes,” Luka says. “You told me to stop eating the plants.”

“Because?”

“Because I had very vivid hallucinations, which were enchanting and terrifying at the same time!” Luka seems entirely unaffected by the experience he had a few nights ago, in which he was certain his left foot became sentient and he carried on a five hour conversation with it. “But these are safe! I promise!”

“I don’t believe you,” Arnbjorn says. “And we can’t afford to sit around while you come down from whatever high those things give you.”

“What happened the other night was an accident!” Luka pleads. “I assure you, these are safe!”

“If Luka says they are safe, then I believe him,” Lumen says, hoping to curb this debate before it picks up any steam. “But I’d be wary to eat the same foods the Falmer eat. What if there’s something in it that makes your nose fall off and your eyes shrivel up?”

Luka stares at her for a long moment before suddenly dropping the mushrooms on the ground. “Oh, gods. I didn’t think of that!” He frantically touches his face. “Is my face okay?”

“Your face is fine,” Lumen says, laughing as she pats Luka on the arm. She steps away from him to sit on a mossy rock, grateful to be off her feet for a few minutes. 

They won’t rest for long. There is a tower in the distance and they are all eager to see what it holds. Hopefully it has an Elder Scroll within it, but if nothing else, it will at least be a safe place to set camp. Luka had seemed very positive about what the tower might hold when he pointed it out to them. Positive thought is something Lumen is struggling with. She _hates_ this place. Nothing good will come of Blackreach. It is a place of ancient magic and death. Every step taken upon it’s perpetually damp soil is a provocation to the creatures that dwell here, and maybe even the spirits that linger. She and her companions are nothing more than interlopers in a place that should be sealed off forever.

Arnbjorn settles down a few paces from her. Rather than nap, or eat, he takes a whetstone from his pack and begins to sharpen the edge of his battle axe. The rhythmic sound of stone on steel is almost enough to lull Lumen to sleep, and she is tempted to curl up on the mossy rock and catch a few minutes of blissful unconsciousness. 

“You look like you’re about to fall over, Miss Lumen,” Luka says, his cheerful voice pulling Lumen out of her sleepy daze and back to the harsh reality of Blackreach. Luka sits down beside her and bumps her with his shoulder. “I’m told I make a very good pillow.”

“Sweet Lumen makes a nice pillow, too,” Cicero says. The Keeper is sitting on the ground, resting his head against Lumen’s thigh. He has spent the entire trip lavishing attention on them all, even Arnbjorn. Although his attempts to be attentive to Arnbjorn were thwarted by the werewolf himself. But it seems like days of travel, fighting, and acting like an overbearing mother-hen are starting to wear on Cicero.

Lumen smiles for their benefit, even though she’s beginning to feel a bit smothered. “Don’t get too comfortable,” she says. “I don’t plan to sit here all day.”

“Oh, yes. Of course! I am eager to see what that tower holds as well.” Luka cranes his neck to get a better look at the tower in the distance. 

There had been an earlier debate on exactly how far away the tower really is. They discovered early on that Blackreach seems to distort one’s perception of time and scale. Something far away is actually close, and things that seem close are always farther than they appear.

“We’ll head out in five minutes,” Lumen says, because she has no desire to sit around when the very thing she’s been searching for may very well be in her grasp. Luka and Arnbjorn murmur their assent, and when she doesn’t hear a response from Cicero, she glances down at him only to find him fast asleep. A smile appears on her face before she can stop it, and she says, “Eh-- make that fifteen minutes.”

* * *

The tower is situated on a rocky spire, and partially obscured by the mist of nearby waterfalls. It is impossibly tall, vanishing up into the darkened ceiling of the cavern. Lumen doesn’t know if it’s the tower they’re looking for, but just the sight of it gives her hope. She wants nothing more than to find that scroll and leave this strange place behind.

“Please have an Elder Scroll inside,” she whispers to herself as they set across the stone bridge that leads to the entrance to the tower.

The unlocked doors lead to a lift, which brings them to a series of rooms littered with books, soul gems, and all manner of clutter. There is a room containing the remnants of an abandoned campsite, but at least there are no Falmer or deadly, Dwemer contraptions.

Arnbjorn secures the doors, ensuring that no Falmer can sneak inside and trap them while they explore the upper levels of the tower. Lumen searches the camp for any useful supplies, but the camp has been there so long, the food has all spoiled and even the wood saved for the fire has begun to show signs of rot. Luka explores the next room, which is a large circular room with a ramp leading to the upper levels. He bolts up the ramp, too excited to wait on the rest of them.

Soon the clamor of his footsteps quiets, and Luka shouts, “Miss Lumen! Come up here, quickly! I’ve found something _fascinating_!”

Lumen and Cicero share a brief, astonished look before running up the ramp to see what Luka has found. What she finds is unlike anything she’s ever seen. The large, circular room houses some sort of Dwemer machine consisting of golden gears, and crystals and lenses of all sizes.

“What is this thing?” Lumen asks as she approaches Luka at the pedestal.

“This is an Oculory,” Luka says breathlessly. “I believe it must house the Elder Scroll.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“Septimus told me the Dwemer devised a method of reading an Elder Scroll without having to look at it. Of course, this only prevents blindness, not madness.” Luka carefully examines the buttons on the pedestals before placing a carved box in the tallest, which then activates. “I believe if I focus the lenses just right, I can remove the Elder Scroll from the machine. I just need some time to think.”

“What’s the box for?” she asks.

“Ah, it’s just something Septimus asked me to do,” he explains. “This particular Oculory will transcribe the information from the scroll onto this box.”

“I suppose that is a safer way of reading it,” Lumen sighs. “Do you really think reading that scroll will make me go blind and mad?”

“I see no harm in reading it once,” Luka says, his brow furrowing with worry. “But I would avoid prolonged exposure.”

Cicero, oddly enough, is silent. His eyes flicking back and forth between the Oculory and the buttons on the pedestal, determined to help figure out how the ancient machine works. Lumen is content to leave them to it. So she steps away and sits down, leaning her back against a wall and staring up at the glittering lenses.

Arnbjorn sits down next to her and asks, “I trust the kid to figure out how this machine works, but the fool?”

“He’s smarter than you think,” Lumen says, glaring at him. For as close as they have become over the past few months, there is still a major rift between Arnbjorn and Cicero. “He outsmarted you before.”

A deep, bitterness alights in his eyes, and Lumen immediately regrets mentioning that one, ill-fated night. But soon the bitterness fades and all that is left is the look of a man who has resigned himself to a horrible fate-- and that fate is Lumen. “He did,” Arnbjorn admits. “I underestimated him. We _all_ did-- except for you.”

Lumen looks to where Cicero and Luka stand. Cicero appears to be focused on the podium, even pushing a button and causing the gears and lenses to change position, but she knows he’s listening to their conversation. “It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to him,” she says quietly. “You may even find that you like him.”

Arnbjorn grunts in response, and Lumen means to argue with him further, but the sound of squeaking gears and the sight of the focusing crystals lowering, and one of them opening, stops her.

“Is that…” she cannot finish her sentence. Rather than babbling, she stands on unsteady legs and walks toward the open crystal to look inside. There she finds a large, golden scroll, adorned with ornate carvings and tiny jewels, and humming with an eldritch power. She takes the scroll from the receptacle, amazed at the thrum of power beneath her fingertips. After doubting it’s very existence for so long, it’s almost overwhelming to have it in her hands. An Elder Scroll-- _Her_ Elder Scroll. She is one step closer to defeating Alduin. One step closer to getting rid of that stupid dragon and returning to a normal life-- as normal as an assassin’s life is, anyway.

“Cicero thought it would be bigger.”

“That’s what _she_ said,” Luka quips, sending both men into a fit of giggles, and shaking Lumen out of her stupor.

She turns to face her companions, clutching the Elder Scroll to her chest. “Please tell me there’s an easy way out of here.”

“You’re in luck, Miss Lumen. There’s a lift that should take us right to the surface,” he tells her. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sithis, yes,” she says, eager to be on the surface again. “Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is pretty long compared to what I usually do. But I really wanted to try to wrap Blackreach up in one chapter. So, you get an extra long one. I don’t know if that’s a treat or a punishment. XD I shall let my readers decide.
> 
> Umm... So, the scene with Arnbjorn and Lumen just kinda happened. I had planned for those two to eventually work out their issues in a smutty way, but I hadn’t planned on it happening in this chapter. But it just felt right. And I think I have been teasing you all with those two for long enough. (Don’t worry. This is not the end of the angst between those two. They’re a mess.) 
> 
> I’ll be honest, I was really dreading writing this part of the story just because I didn’t enjoy this part of the game. Blackreach is really cool, don’t get me wrong, but the novelty wears off pretty quick. So I wasn’t sure if I could succeed in making this part of the story very interesting. But in the end, I decided to just let my imagination run away with me, and this was the result. I enjoyed writing it, so I hope you all enjoy reading it! :)


	32. Alduin's Bane

The journey home is a quiet affair. The sky above is full of grey clouds, and the ground is covered in a layer of pure, white snow. All is silent except for the sound of their boots crunching through the snow, and the occasional song of a bird flying overhead. They are all too weary and worn for conversation, and they are all eager to be home so they can rest.

They are nearing Dawnstar when Arnbjorn stops them. “Do you hear that, tidbit?”

Lumen’s sharp ears twitch. Her hearing is not as sensitive as Arnbjorn’s, but it is better than the average humans. She can hear a clamor of metal and voices in the distance. “Soldiers?” she asks, and his nod confirms her suspicions.

“Here,” he says, removing his cloak and handing it to her. “Wrap the scroll in this, we don’t want to draw their attention.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

Arnbjorn smirks. “I think I can survive a few minutes without my cloak.”

“Now it just looks like I’ve got something to hide,” she says as she wraps the cloak around the scroll. “And they’re soldiers. It’s not as if they’d just take this from me.”

“You’d be surprised what soldiers think they have the right to do,” Arnbjorn growls, watching the road now that the detachment of soldiers have come into view. “Stormcloaks, not surprising-- all right, tidbit. You and the cl--” he pauses, recalling their earlier conversation where Lumen suggested he actually be nice to Cicero. “You and Cicero stand behind me and Luka.”

It’s not a bad plan. Luka, while lanky and awkward, is still a Nord. And Arnbjorn looks like the very embodiment of a Nord barbarian with his long, white hair and hide armor. A miserably cold Cicero is swathed in a cloak, hiding his motley from view, but he could never pass for anything other than an Imperial.

A soldier breaks from the detachment and runs ahead to greet them. His weapon is not drawn, and he is smiling as he waves at them. Well, at least the soldier hasn’t immediately perceived Arnbjorn and Luka as threats, but that could change when he lays eyes on Cicero and Lumen. She has very little experience with soldiers outside of passing small troupes on the road, and she’s never seen such a large group of them before. The small troupes were always Imperial soldiers, though. They never gave her any trouble, and they were content to share the road with a fellow traveler. But she’s heard rumors about Ulfric Stormcloak’s hatred of elves and beast races. She doesn't know if there is any truth to these rumors, or if his men feel the same way, but she would prefer to avoid him and his followers all the same.

“Hail travelers!” The soldier is close enough that Lumen can see how young he is. He’s probably only a few years older than Luka, with bright blue eyes and long, blond hair. He has a friendly demeanor one wouldn’t expect from a soldier. “Would you mind standing aside so that we may pass?”

Arnbjorn nods, clearly of a mind to be completely agreeable. “That’s fine--”

“How come there’s so many soldiers?” Lumen blurts out. 

The soldier chuckles, much to Lumen’s surprise. “It’s an escort fitting of a High King, isn’t it?” At the utterly baffled look on Lumen’s face, the soldier’s smile falters only a little and he says, “We are escorting Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak to Windhelm.”

“From where?” Lumen asks.

“Dawnstar,” the chatty soldier says, waving at his brothers in arms as they pass them by. “Jarl Skald is an avid supporter of the Stormcloak rebellion. Though, if you ask me, it seems like the people of Dawnstar are divided on the war, and they are not likely to support him if he chooses to send men to Windhelm.”

Less guards in Dawnstar would suit Lumen just fine. She would prefer it if there were less soldiers on the roads, too. But it seems like the war is about to begin in earnest, and she will likely see more soldiers rather than less. The detachment of soldiers marches past them, all on foot except for two Nords on horses. One is an older Nord, wearing steel armor and a bearskin hood. The other is draped in a wolfskin cloak and dressed in fine armor befitting a Jarl. She guesses that one is Ulfric. He certainly has a noble look about him; a strong jaw and nose held high in the air, a look of polite disinterest as he glances at the group of ‘travelers’ on the road. 

So, that’s him. That’s the man who started a civil war. And for what? From what she’s cobbled together from overheard conversations in the past, he’s fighting for the right to worship Talos, or, as some say, he murdered the High King so he could steal his pretty wife. Lumen personally thinks the latter makes for a more interesting story. Who doesn’t enjoy a torrid love affair? But the truth is likely the more boring scenario of a jarl sending his countrymen off to their deaths, all for the freedom to cower beneath an effigy of a dead man.

The love affair theory is definitely more interesting than _that_.

“Thank you for your cooperation, travelers,” the soldier finally says. “The Stormcloaks could always use more able bodied men and women to fight for Skyrim, if you are interested.” He walks away before any of them can give a response, which is probably for the best.

“Well that was anticlimactic,” Lumen says. “Would you like your cloak back?”

Arnbjorn waves her off. “No, keep it wrapped around the scroll until we get home.”

“All right.” Lumen glances at Cicero, only to see him glaring after the soldiers, his jaw tense. “Hey,” she nudges him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Cicero does not like soldiers,” he mutters, taking one last look at the retreating detachment before following along with his siblings. “They would have killed us on sight if they knew who we are.”

“That’s why we don’t go around advertising it,” Arnbjorn says, keeping a wary eye on Cicero. The Keeper’s anger is unsettling to most, especially those who have felt the brunt of it. Of those who have, Arnbjorn is one of the few to ever survive it.

“I know that, but they still make poor Cicero uneasy,” he says. “He especially does not like it when soldiers speak with the Listener. It’s dangerous.”

“All he saw was a cold elf,” Lumen says, wishing to soothe Cicero’s worries. “I doubt anyone immediately assumes I am the conduit through which the Night Mother relays her orders.”

“That would be quite the assumption,” Luka says, turning off the main road and walking to the Sanctuary’s secret entrance. 

“Cicero knows,” he says irritably. “He just wishes the Listener would not take any unnecessary risks in the future.”

“I don’t think that’s an option for the Dragonborn, unfortunately.”

Arnbjorn murmurs his agreement, and Lumen falls silent, listening to her brothers converse. She is a bit baffled by Cicero’s foul mood. He cannot be upset simply because she spoke with the solider, it has to be something more. But what?

She doesn’t know, but she intends to find out.

* * *

After spending well over a week inside a chilly cave filled with the screeches of Falmer and the occasional bang of an ancient machine, Lumen could almost cry in relief at how warm and blissfully silent the Sanctuary is. Babette welcomes the road weary assassins home before running off to catalogue the rare ingredients Luka brought to her. Luka swears he is going to sleep for an entire week, and that he’ll fling fireballs at anyone who dares to wake him. Arnbjorn retires to his room without so much as a word to anyone, leaving Cicero and Lumen alone in the overlook.

“Cicero,” Lumen says his name quietly, because his morose mood is starting to unnerve her. He looks up at her, but he doesn’t say anything, or even ask her what she wants. So she just sighs and asks, “Do you mind holding the scroll while I speak with Mother?”

“Cicero does not mind,” he says, even though the way he frowns at the Elder Scroll says otherwise. He does take it from her arms, however, leaving Lumen free to write down any contracts the Night Mother might have for them.

The contracts are the usual sort, and Lumen is grateful there are no special requests for her services this time around. She’s got enough to deal with at the moment, and she is glad to have a few precious minutes to do something normal. Not that having a disembodied voice whispering plans of murder in one’s ear counts as normal for most, but it is normal for Lumen.

Lumen glances over the parchment in her hands. Five new contracts. Five! The citizens of Skyrim are feeling particularly vengeful lately, which is one of the blessings of living in a country torn apart by an impending civil war. Everyone wants someone dead, and they will pay well for the deed if it means they don’t have to get their hands dirty.

Cicero snatches the parchment out of her hands. “Cicero will make sure Nazir gets this,” he says. “You may have your scroll back now.”

“What is wrong with you?” she asks, accepting the heavy scroll from Cicero. “You’ve been acting strange the whole way home.”

“Cicero is fine,” he says stiffly, and walks off before Lumen can question him further.

“That man is a terrible liar,” Lumen mutters to herself, her heart growing a little heavier with each step she takes toward their bedroom. What is wrong with him? It’s not like Cicero to hold back. He is almost always the first to voice his pleasure or displeasure, so why is he being so stubbornly quiet about it now?

A chill washes over her when she walks past the door to Arnbjorn’s room. Is _that_ it? Is Cicero upset because Lumen slept with Arnbjorn? The Keeper swore up and down that he didn’t mind, but the fantasy is one thing, and the reality is another. He certainly didn’t seem upset when she told him what happened, but he’s had time to stew about it. Maybe he’s not okay with it after all.

She carefully places the Elder Scroll on top of her dresser and heaves a sigh. “Well, shit,” she murmurs to herself. “What now?”

“Are you conversing with that thing?” comes Cicero’s voice.

“No,” she says, a bit startled by his sudden appearance. “I was just talking to myself.”

“Ah.” Cicero pushes the door shut, but he doesn’t move deeper into the room. He merely stands there, his fingers twisting in the tattered hem of his motley.

Lumen stares at him for a few moments. The silence that stretches between them is long enough to make him fidget with his gloves. Clearly nervous and uncomfortable under the scrutiny of her gaze, and yet, he has not given voice to his discomfort. She wracks her brain for the right question to ask, because asking him if he’s okay will earn her nothing but frustration.

Finally, after the silence has gone on for too long, she asks, “Are _we_ okay?”

He looks up at her then, and it takes all her willpower not the flinch at the look in his eyes. There is a deep sadness within them, edged with ample amounts of fury, and for a brief moment she wonders if she ought to run. But then he is moving closer to her, and smiling that smile he often gives her when he thinks she’s said something astoundingly stupid.

“Of course we are, sweetness,” he says, some of the usual cheer creeping back into his voice. “Why would you ask such a silly question?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve been weird and moody the entire trip home,” she says, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “And you keep claiming you’re fine when you obviously aren’t.”

To his credit, he does look suitably guilty. “Cicero is sorry,” he says miserably. “But he does not wish to burden you with his worries.”

“I want you to!” She pulls away from him and begins to pace. There’s too much nervous energy welling up inside her to just stand still. “If this is about what happened with Arnbjorn then we really need to talk about it.”

“What? Why would Cicero be upset about that?” he asks, genuinely confused. “He has already given you his blessing, not that you needed it.”

Lumen stops pacing and turns to face him, her shoulders sagging in defeat. “Then what is it?” she asks, knowing she sounds as miserable as she feels. “I feel like you’re mad at me.”

“No.” The word comes out in a harsh whisper, and Cicero is instantly at her side, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in the crook of her neck. “It’s that scroll,” he says bitterly. “You are one step closer to using it, and Sithis only knows how dangerous that will be.”

“There are many risks that go along with reading an Elder Scroll. So, believe me, I only plan to read it once.”

“But that’s not all! You will have to face this dragon god, and try as he might, poor Cicero cannot save you from this fate. Cicero cannot do what he is supposed to do and protect the Listener!”

Ah, now she understands his distress. He doesn’t think she’s going to survive this. The thought has occurred to her too many times to count, but it’s different when it’s coming from him. It hurts. “If I die--” her words are cut off by Cicero pressing closer to her and squeezing her tighter. “If I die,” she says again, her voice slightly strained. “You will find another Listener.”

“No,” he says, his voice muffled.

“You will.” Lumen pats him on the back. It is a bit odd to comfort someone in regards to her own death. Her own mortality is not a subject she is fond of. “You found me, didn’t you?”

“Cicero doesn’t want to find another Listener!” He pulls away so he can look her in the eyes, and she wishes he hadn’t. His dark, fathomless eyes are wide with fear, and the pained look on his face is enough to make her heart ache. “Cicero doesn’t want another Listener, because they would not be _you_.”

Lumen wants to reply, to say something-- _anything_. But she is struck silent by the intensity of his stare, and the meaning of his words. Her hands dangle uselessly at her sides. She doesn’t know what to say or what to do. But she doesn’t have to do anything, because her loyal Keeper has come to her rescue, as usual. He pulls her out of her stupor with a chaste kiss before filling the silence with more words so she doesn’t have to.

“Cicero does not doubt the Listener’s abilities, but, as he has said before, he has not seen you slay a single dragon.”

“I’ve killed a few,” Lumen says, too distracted from what happened moments before to weave a lie for the sake of her pride. “But I usually just stand by while other people do the killing for me. I just do the whole soul-taking bit. Which is pretty easy, honestly.”

“What happens if you have to fight Alduin alone?”

“I’ll probably cry a lot,” she says lightly, reaching for humor because the tone of their conversation is too serious and it’s making her uncomfortable.

“Cicero is being serious!”

“I don’t know what will happen,” she sighs. “I suppose if it comes down to kill or be killed, I will have to swallow my fear and fight the ugly bastard. Who knows? Maybe I’ll win.”

“Sweet Lumen,” Cicero closes his eyes, and there is a tightness to his voice that puts Lumen on edge. “It was not too long ago when a giant Nord was determined to kill you, and he would have if Cicero had not shown up in time.”

“I know.” It pains her to admit it, but it’s true. Give her a helpless victim in a dark, shadowed room, and Lumen feels right at home. She’s a killer, not a fighter. There is a difference.

“Do not do this,” he whispers. “Do not fight Alduin. Let him do what he is destined to do. Perhaps he will not, or maybe another Dragonborn will appear. Cicero does not see why it has to be you.”

“I have to,” she protests. The constant change in his mood from angry, to sad, to scared concerns her more than Alduin at the moment. There’s no way she can calm Cicero if he were to have a nervous breakdown. Not when she’s so close to having her own.

“Why?” he asks, lowering his head and sulking, because he _knows_ why she has to.

“His very presence threatens Mother, for one.” She touches his chin, coaxing him to look at her. “For another--” her voice falters, and she loses her nerve to say what she truly wishes to. She wants to tell him how she truly feels-- that she cannot bear to see the world end because _he_ is in it. “You once thought Alduin was nothing to fear. Why are you so afraid now?”

“It is more real now,” he says bitterly, glancing at the Elder Scroll. “Months ago, it did not seem like such an immediate threat. But now…”

“Look,” she sighs. “I’m scared shitless. I hate dragons, and I would prefer to run from them, rather than fight them. But I have to do this. I can’t just stand aside while this dragon destroys the world. I’ll see this word fall to Sithis, not to some dragon.” The little, ghost of a smile that passes across his mouth tells her that he rather like the sound of that, which urges her on. “Besides, if the world ends, there will be no one left to stab. How boring would that be?”

“Cicero assumed we would be dead, too.”

“Maybe,” she says, the corner of her mouth quirking into a little smile. “But the Void seems a bit boring. Lucien wouldn’t spend so much of his time here if it was interesting.”

He wrinkles his nose, not caring for the notion that the Void is just that-- a boring, empty Void. “Perhaps...”

She reaches out to him, her thumb feathering across his cheek. “It would help if you had a little faith in me,” she says. “Because I don’t exactly have any in myself.”

“Cicero will try, sweet Lumen.”

Lumen pulls him close, squeezing him tight, and letting their embrace last for many moments until she finally loosens her grip, but she doesn’t let him go. “Do you need to see to Mother tonight?”

“Cicero will do that tomorrow,” he tells her, offering her a tired, weary smile. “Mother will need my full attention, and right now, poor Cicero is exhausted.”

“Then let me see to you, instead.” 

It is rare for Lumen to crave affection, but tonight, after all that’s transpired and in the looming shadow of all that has yet to be, she needs it. They are to leave for Ivarstead after a day of rest. She will be closer to reading the Elder Scroll, and closer to facing Alduin, and quite possibly, closer to her own demise. She wants to enjoy life as much as she can before then.

* * *

They reach the sleepy town of Ivarstead after three days of travel. The roads had been rather crowded along the way. The assassins passed by numerous soldiers, both Imperial and Stormcloak depending on the Hold. They also saw many traveling merchants, as well as sell-swords and their patrons traversing across Skyrim’s chilly lands.

The Vilemyr Inn is just as Lumen remembers. The stew is flavorless, but hearty, and the mead is flavorful and strong. She and her brothers sit at a table in the corner of the inn, eating their meal and attempting to have a civil conversation. The latter is not going well thanks to Cicero. His mood has drastically improved over the last few days of travel, and he is currently focusing his attention on Arnbjorn and his one night stand with the inn’s resident bard. 

“So, brother,” Cicero purrs, sliding into a seat next to Arnbjorn. “Does the pretty bard offer her services to anyone with enough coin, or are you just special?”

Arnbjorn blanches, then glares at Lumen. “You told him about that?” He shakes his head. “No, _clown_ ,” he snarls. “I didn’t pay her.”

Cicero slaps the table, feigning outrage. “How is she supposed to make a decent wage if you do not pay the poor thing?”

“She isn’t a whore,” Arnbjorn hisses, obviously trying to keep his voice low and end the conversation for Lynly’s sake. 

“She isn’t?” Cicero asks, disappointed. “Then how did you manage to get her into your bed?”

Arnbjorn grits his teeth. “I’m fucking _charming_ , that’s why.” 

The tone of his voice carries an air of danger Lumen hasn’t heard in a long time, and it’s clear that Arnbjorn has endured quite enough of Cicero’s teasing for one night. “Why don’t you go sit by Luka?” she suggests, hauling Cicero out of the chair and dragging him around the table.

“But Cicero wishes to bond with his dear brother!” he wails, grunting when both Lumen and Luka shove him down in his chair. 

“Bond with this one,” Lumen snaps. “He’s less likely to crush your trachea.”

Luka smiles at Cicero, visibly relaxing now that the awkward situation has diffused. “If you are wishing to purchase um-- services, I hear Markarth is the best place to go. The Temple of Dibella is there.”

“The Bunkhouse is in Riften,” Cicero says petulantly. “Which is where I wanted to spend the night, but none of you would allow it.”

“Have you ever been there?” she asks, shuddering with repulsion. “The floor is _sticky_ , and the place smells like--”

“A brothel,” Cicero finishes for her. “Yes, dear, I am aware of what it smells like.”

“Why are you going on about this?”

Cicero heaves a long suffering sigh. “Because poor Cicero was hoping to spend a night sandwiched between his sweet Lumen and another soft, pretty lady, before freezing his manhood off on the side of some godsforsaken mountain.”

Luka’s eyes grow as wide as saucers, while Lumen just sighs. “Perhaps we should discuss our plan for tomorrow. I would hate to get caught in another blizzard.”

“It’s spring, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says. “There will be snow along the pathway, but I doubt we will encounter any bad weather. If we leave at dawn, we should arrive at High Hrothgar by early afternoon.”

“And then I’ll be tearing a hole in the fabric of time by evening,” she murmurs, sparing a glance at the Elder Scroll, which is safely wrapped in a cloak. The odd-shaped object has garnered a few curious glances, but it’s drawn less attention this way than if it weren’t covered.

She regrets those words the moment they are out of her mouth, because Cicero’s maniacally cheerful mood vanishes right before her eyes. Lumen has learned to deal with his extreme mood swings, and she’s even learned to tolerate how clingy he can be. But a worried, moody Cicero is one thing she still hasn’t learned how to handle, and she’s not certain that she ever will.

“Cicero wishes you would stop being so blithe about this,” he says, wringing his hands together. “There are so many things that could go wrong! Reading an Elder Scroll is dangerous enough-- you could go blind! Or your head could explode! But tearing a hole in time? What if you get stuck in the past? Or the future? What if--”

Luka lays a comforting hand on Cicero’s shoulder. “I am sure Miss Lumen understands the risks, but there is no reason to work yourself into a dither over what _might_ happen.”

She is not blind to the fact that she might not survive this. If the Elder Scroll doesn’t do her in, then Alduin certainly will. It’s a grim reality that she ran from for as long as she could. But then she learned that Alduin means to destroy the world, and that gave her purpose. As terrifying as facing him will be, it’s less painful than losing everything and everyone she’s come to care for. She knows her reasons for facing him are not noble. She doesn’t care about this world or the people in it, save for a few, and the people who mean the most are right there with her.

Lumen swallows around a lump in her throat, listening to Luka talk Cicero down before he works himself into a fit of anxiety. Arnbjorn remains quietly at her side, studying her with his piercing gaze. The only small comfort she can give herself is the knowledge that Cicero will not be alone if she dies. Luka will take care of him, and he has a Sanctuary of brothers and sisters to return home to. As comforting as that is, the thought of leaving him hurts. 

“I’m going to bed,” she announces suddenly, eager to be alone for a while. “I suggest you all do the same, we have a long day ahead of us.”

* * *

Her melancholy mood stays with her throughout the night, and well into the next day. As as the day wears on it is a constant weight resting across her shoulders. It’s made worse by the Greybeards disapproval of her choice to kill Alduin, and their displeasure with her decision to bring outsiders into Paarthurnax’s realm. Who are they to disapprove of anything the Dragonborn chooses to do? At least she’s determined to change destiny rather than sit around and just let it happen, as they would have her do.

“That was awkward,” Luka comments as they cross the training yard. “You are the Dragonborn, and yet they see fit to tell you what they think you should do.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lumen huffs. “I’ve made my decision. They can stop me if they wish.”

“The only weapon those pacifists bother to wield is a guilt trip. That will hardly stop anyone, let alone you, Listener.” Cicero casts a glare at the building before following Lumen through the gate that leads to the mountain’s peak. The Keeper did well on the trek up the mountain, his energy never flagging the entire time. But he didn’t like High Hrothgar. He said it was too quiet and too big, and it made him feel lonely even though he wasn’t alone. 

“They don’t wield guilt as well as you do, dearheart,” Lumen comments, only to hear an irritated snort come from Cicero. 

“Cicero has good reasons for doing so.”

Rather than respond, Lumen Shouts the strong winds away so she and her brothers can safely travel to the mountain’s peak. An odd sense of calm settles over her, as it always does when she uses the Clear Skies Shout. The calm is welcome, though. Who knows what she may see when she uses the scroll, or what may happen to her.

“Fascinating!” Luka gasps. “Miss Lumen! I didn’t know you could Shout the weather away!”

“You did not tell Cicero you could do that!”

“Hush,” she orders, wishing for silence as the draw closer to Paarthurnax’s realm. The dragon is friendly, but she sees no reason to irritate him with noise is he unaccustomed to. “Keep your voices down.”

If she’s honest, she’s not entirely sure how well Paarthurnax will receive her. The last he saw of her, she was being carted off by Arnbjorn after she completely fell apart under the enormity of all that was expected of her. She cried, for Sithis’ sake! Lumen doesn’t know much about dragons, but she knows they respect power, and crying is _not_ a display of power.

Her fears are assuaged when they reach the summit of the mountain. Paarthurnax is lounging lazily in the sparse sunlight, but he lifts his head, blinking curiously at the Dragonborn and her companions.

“ _Drem yol lok, briinah_ ,” the dragon rumbles. “You have it! The _kel_ \-- the Elder Scroll. _Tiid kreh… qalos. Time shudders at its touch_.”

“It’s a dragon! And he’s not trying to eat us!” Luka whispers, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Do you think he will allow me to pet him?”

“Later,” Lumen says, glancing at her brothers. Luka looks as pleased as he sounds, while Cicero’s face is pinched with worry. Clearly the Keeper is not thrilled that his Listener is speaking to a dragon, friendly or not. Arnbjorn stands behind them with his arms crossed, watching impassively. He met Paarthurnax once already, and the shock of meeting a friendly dragon seems to have worn off.

Paarthurnax cocks his head at the _joor_ gathered at his perch. “There is no question, _Dovahkiin_. You are doom-driven. _Kogaan Akatosh_. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal. Go then. Fulfill your destiny. Take the Scroll to the Time-Wound.” He bows his head, inching so close to Lumen that she can feel the heat of his breath. “Tell your _zeymahzin_ \-- your companions that Alduin will be coming. He will know the signs.”

Her stomach makes a sickening flip at that, and the shiver that runs through her isn’t just because of the icy cold winds. She turns slowly to address her brothers, and she is tempted to grab them and simply run away. Lumen knows she is to face Alduin, but she thought she would do so on her own. She did not think that dragon would directly endanger the lives of her brothers.

“Paarthurnax says-- well--” she swallows hard. “Alduin will know when I have read the scroll and he will-- he will come here. I suppose he’ll see this as a challenge.”

“Let this dragon come!” Cicero stands up a little straighter. “I will defeat Alduin for you, sweetness, and once we find a decent bed you can show Cicero just how grateful you are,” he says with a comical waggle of his brows.

Arnbjorn just rolls his eyes, while Luka grins. But Cicero’s humor does little to dissolve the tension building up inside her. “Don’t do anything rash,” she says, although she knows he’ll never listen to that advice. “This is _my fight_ and I’ll not have you taking any stupid risks.”

“We will be careful, Miss Lumen.” Luka casts a wary glance at Cicero, and then turns back to her. “Please don’t stare at the scroll for too long.”

“It’s not too late to run away,” she says weakly, wishing to do so. _“I can’t do this…”_

“We’re not going anywhere, tidbit.” Arnbjorn reaches for his battle axe, readying himself for a fight with a dragon god. “Go read your scroll.”

Lumen adjusts the bulky scroll in her grip, and with a resigned sigh, she marches toward the Time Wound.

* * *

The world shudders around her. Thunderous booms shake the mountain, but they are muffled to her ears. Her mind is still reeling from what she saw in the Elder Scroll, her ears still howling with its strange eldritch magic, and her _eyes_ \-- oh, gods. She can still see the bizarre, cosmic drawings from the scroll whenever she closes her eyes. They are burned into her, and her eyes are so sensitive to the crisp sunlight at the peak of the mountain, she can barely open them to see.

She is still trying to process everything she saw when she read the scroll. An ancient battle on this very mountain, Tongues of old fighting Alduin, and using a Shout that brought him to the ground. A Shout she now has an understanding of, and she fully intends to use.

“ _Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor_!” The wind in her ears settles, and she blearily opens her eyes to see a great, black dragon hovering above her. “My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals, _Dovahkiin_!”

She is terrified. But more than that-- she is angry, and that anger grows with each flaming rock that falls from the sky. Alduin soars overhead, occasionally dipping out of the sky to snap at Luka, or swipe his claws at Arnbjorn, and Cicero narrowly dodges getting flung off the mountain by the dragon’s tail. How dare he! How dare this big bastard of a dragon threaten what’s hers?

“ _Hi verut fos los dii, dovah_!” She snarls, the _Dovahzul_ feeling warm and familiar on her tongue, although she has no idea how she knows the words. In her heart she knows what she wants to say, and her inner _dovah_ is _roaring_ , giving her the knowledge that had been untapped. “ _Zu'u fen krii hi_!”

The roar that erupts out of the dragon sounds oddly like laughter. “Die now, _mal joor_ , and await your fate in Sovngarde!”

**_“Joor Zah Frul!”_ **

There is an explosion of movement all around her. The moment Alduin hits the ground, she and her brothers move in for the attack. Luka wields fire, while Arnbjorn’s battle axe bites deep into Alduin’s flesh. Cicero moves quickly, flitting around the dragon without an ounce of fear, his ebony dagger shredding the tender flesh along his wings. Lumen rushes forward, trying to strike him with Dragonbane, all while avoiding his furious snapping maw and giant claws.

When Alduin takes off to the air, Paarthurnax attacks him from above. The dragon god uses a Shout she is unfamiliar with, calling forth a storm of rocks that fall from a blood red sky. Cicero is the only one truly prepared, and he lifts his heavy shield above his head to block the rocks as Luka casts a magical barrier.

“Use the Shout that calms the winds!” Arnbjorn shouts, his voice almost drowned out by the thundering of rocks upon the mountain top.

Lumen takes a breath and faces the sky. “ ** _Lok Vah Koor_**!”

The Shout leaves her breathless, but the storm calms and the clouds part, which only serves to further infuriate Alduin. He turns his rage toward Paarthurnax, and the two dragons grapple in the sky overhead. Lumen takes the chance to check on her companions, comforted by the sight of them still standing and mostly unharmed. A few scratches and bruises, but they are still whole.

“Miss Lumen!” Luka calls to her in between throwing fire at Alduin. “Can you use the Shout that brought him down again, please? He is rather difficult to fight when he is in the air!”

“I’m trying,” she gasps, her throat and lungs tingling with a strange, burning sensation. Never before has she relied on the power of her Shouts so heavily, and using so many in quick succession is draining her considerably. But after what feels like ages she is able to use her Voice again, and she brings Alduin crashing down with the Dragonrend Shout once more.

He thrashes on the ground, snarling insults as he does. “You may have picked up the weapons of my ancient foes, but you are not their equal!"

The battle that ensues is absolute chaos. Alduin fights just as much ferocity as he did the first time, but Lumen and her brothers are starting to slow down as exhaustion sets in. But they press on, their tired bodies fueled by the hope that _this is it_ \-- that this is the day they end this stupid dragon and their lives return to normal.

The fight wages on until Alduin begins to weaken, and he decides he’s had enough. “You have grown strong, _Dovahkiin_ ,” he growls, backing away from the assassins and taking off into the air.

Lumen braces herself against the wind and snow stirred up by his powerful wings. “When I said I was going to kill you, I fucking meant it!” she roars at the dragon, her inner _dovah_ still reeling from the thrill of battle.

“I am Firstborn of Akatosh! _Mulaagi zok lot_! I cannot be slain here, by you or anyone else!” Alduin wheels in the sky, flying away from the mountain.

“Get back here!” Lumen throws Dragonbane into the bloodstained snow. “Fucking coward!”

“He has gone back to Sovngarde,” Paarthurnax says, landing beside her with a heavy boom. “He will feast on the _sillesejoor_ there to regain his strength.”

“What am I supposed to do now? The only way to get to Sovngarde is to die!”

“Why would anyone want to go there?”

Lumen turns around to face Cicero, the weak, warble of his voice unnerving her. But the sound of his voice does not frighten her like the steadily growing pool of blood beneath his feet does. His hand is clutched over a gash across his middle, blood streaming out over his armor and down his leg.

“Cicero--” she runs to him when he collapses to his knees, grabbing his shoulders to keep him from falling face-down in the snow. “I’ve got you!”

He grunts out something that sounds like a _thank you_ , and Lumen is only dimly aware of Luka kneeling down beside them, ripping his cloak into strips to wrap around Cicero’s waist to stem the flow of blood. Anger had been the first thing she felt when Alduin flew off, but then there was the cooling, calm wash of relief because they were all still alive and injury free, despite a few scratches, bruises and burns.

Or so she thought.

“What happened?” she asks, trying to keep his attention because his eyes keep closing, and she will _not_ lose him now. 

“The tip of the dragon’s wing was sharper than expected,” he says in between gasping breaths. “I did not move in time.”

She doesn’t know what to do or what to say. The open, raw expression on his face is breaking her heart. All smiles and laughter gone as her lovable jester bleeds out in her arms. She blinks away angry, hot tears. “Please--” she squeezes his shoulder when his eyes threaten to close. “Stay with me.”

“Cicero will try,” he whispers. 

“Miss Lumen.” Luka’s voice is meek, and he is pale with worry. “I’ve stemmed the flow of blood as best as I can, but we need to return to High Hrothgar. He desperately needs a healer.”

“Okay,” she nods, watching Arnbjorn scoop Cicero up in his arms. If she weren’t so overwhelmed with despair, she’d be touched by the gesture. “Go with him. I’ll be right behind you.”

Lumen does not move from where she kneels in the snow, staring at a puddle of deep, red blood. Blood that is more precious to her than the blood that flows in her own veins. She wipes at her eyes, but it is fruitless. The tears refuse to stop, and her legs refuse to work. She has sent many to their deaths, and she knows how to gauge the severity of an injury better than most. Her loyal Keeper may not make it, and all she can do is sit here in the snow and cry like a weakling.

Paarthurnax moves closer, his nostrils flaring as he takes in the scent of freshly spilled blood. “Months ago, you said you would fight Alduin and save this world because you have _joor_ you care about,” the dragon rumbles. “Perhaps it will bring you comfort to know that Alduin is not out of your reach. You can avenge your comrade.”

“I always seem to cry in front of you,” she sniffs, furiously wiping at her eyes.

Paarthurnax laughs gently. “I have told you before, you are very passionate, _briinah_.”

“How is Alduin still within reach?” she asks, eager to find out so she can hurry to Cicero’s side. There isn’t much help she can offer, but she wants to be there. He would do the same for her. “He’s in Sovngarde, and I don’t want to die just so I can defeat him!”

“ _Stiildus hinmaar_. Calm yourself and listen closely,” he says, inching closer. “You do not have to die in order to reach Sovngarde, _Dovahkiin_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter, but I think I like how it came out. There are a lot of feels in this one, and I am so, so, soooooo sorry about the ending. :( But the one who should really be sorry is Alduin. Lumen is pissed off, and we all know how well she can hold a grudge…
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! And thanks so much for your nice comments, they keep me going when my inspiration starts to flag. :)
> 
> Translations (Thanks to the kind folks at thuum.org!)
> 
> Drem yol lok - Greetings 
> 
> Briinah - Sister
> 
> Kel - Elder Scroll
> 
> Tiid kreh qalos - Time bends at its touch. 
> 
> Joor - Mortal
> 
> Kogaan Akatosh - Blessings of Akatosh
> 
> Zeymahzin - Companion
> 
> Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor! - The souls of mortals feeds my hunger… Or something like that. It translated funny when I popped it into the translator, so I re-structured the sentence so it would make sense to us joor ;)
> 
> Hi verut fos los dii, dovah - You threaten what is mine, dragon
> 
> Zu'u fen krii hi - I will kill you
> 
> Mal joor - little mortal
> 
> Mulaagi zok lot - My strength is great
> 
> Stiildus hinmaar - quiet yourself
> 
> Joor Zah Frul - Mortal Finite Temporary
> 
> Lok Vah Koor - Sky Spring Summer


	33. A Fool's Errand

The tears stop by the time she reaches High Hrothgar. Only a few, tiny droplets remain frozen to her eyelashes.

Her thoughts are scattered. Lost in the sick, sticky flood of despair and rage. At least the rage is familiar, and it just might be the only thing that is keeping her from completely falling apart. She is just as angry at Alduin as she is at herself. She is the Listener and she is responsible for all her brothers and sisters. The Keeper of the Night Mother has come to harm, all because he put himself in danger because of _her_ \--

Lumen clenches her jaw when she feels heat behind her eyes. She _will not_ cry again.

Alduin may think he’s escaped her, but she will find him. No matter the cost. She will see him dead for this. That dragon has no idea what he’s done, or who he’s messed with. She’s no honorable warrior like the ancient Tongues she saw within the Elder Scroll. She’s the Night Mother’s daughter, and _no one_ , dragon or mortal, fucks the Dark Brotherhood and lives.

High Hrothgar is quiet when she enters, and she wonders where Arnbjorn and Luka have taken Cicero. But when she looks down, she realizes all she has to do is follow the trail of blood on the floor.

Her heart drops when she sees him laid out in one of the Greybeard’s beds, stripped of his shirt, and already bleeding through the fresh bandages Luka is wrapping around him. Seeing her indomitable jester looking so weak eats away at her promise to remain strong. But she has to be strong. She has to keep it together. If not for herself, then for him.

“How is he?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Luka offers her a soft smile, even though his brow is furrowed with concern. “One of the Greybeards came by, um-- the one that talks. He healed the internal injuries, and I stitched him up as best as I could. But he will be quite fragile for the next few days. He is so weak from blood loss, his body cannot handle too much healing magic at a time. So-- it will be slow going.”

“He’ll live, right?” 

“I believe so, yes,” Luka says, tying off the bandages.

Lumen winces and swallows hard, her voice rough when she speaks again. “That is not quite the answer I was hoping for.”

“The cut went very deep,” Luka admits shakily. “The worst of it has been healed, but until he has more healing, anything could happen. Shock, infection--”

“I get it,” she says, waving her hand and not wanting to hear what _could_ happen to Cicero.

“He just needs to rest and regain his strength,” he says, more to himself than to her. “I gave him a potion for the pain and to help him sleep.”

Lumen sits on the bed beside Cicero. “This shouldn’t have happened. The Greybeards were right, I should have gone alone.”

“Don’t,” Arnbjorn says firmly. “If you start blaming yourself for every tiny, little thing that happens to us, you’ll drive yourself insane.”

“But--”

“Do you think you could have stopped him from following you?” he asks. “Do you think you could have stopped any of us?”

A crease forms across his brow, and there is a strange, sad look in his eyes that almost makes her flinch. Of all of them, Arnbjorn knows what it’s like to lose a partner, and he knows just how close Lumen came to losing Cicero. Had it not been for the Greybeards, Cicero would have died before they ever found a healer.

“We all chose to come with you, Miss Lumen,” Luka says, patting her hand. “Cicero will not blame you for this, so don’t blame yourself. Besides, he’s probably suffered worse in the past.”

There is no ‘probably’ about it. There are various scars across the Keeper's body, some on his arms and a few across his torso and back. Souvenirs from various fights in his shrouded past. Perhaps she will ask him about them when he wakes up. Scars always have interesting stories, and she bets Cicero’s scars have the most interesting stories of all. She just hopes she gets to hear them someday.

“Thank you,” she says, the words hang in the silence of the monastery as Arnbjorn and Luka watch her curiously. “For taking care of him, and for helping me. You’d think I would be used to having friends by now-- but it is still a strange thing.”

“We’re family, tidbit. This is what family does,” Arnbjorn says, ruffling her hair before walking away to sit in a nearby chair. “Just keep all the mushy shit to a minimum. It’s weird coming from you.”

Lumen breathes a tired laugh. “I’ll try.”

“You look exhausted.” Luka gently squeezes her hand. “Perhaps you ought to rest?”

“We’re all exhausted,” she counters. “And I’m not leaving him.”

“You don’t have to,” Luka says as he stands up and crosses the room. The drag of heavy wood upon stone startles Lumen from her brooding, and she looks up to see Luka pulling one of the other beds closer to where Cicero sleeps. “I’m honestly surprised you didn’t come to this conclusion on your own.” He winks at her, and pushes the bed so it gently butts up against Cicero’s, effectively turning the tiny cot into a bed for two.

Lumen smiles at his teasing, and his thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Luka.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, let’s get some of this armor off.” 

Luka starts with the straps on her pauldrons, and Lumen groans in relief when the heavy armor is lifted from her shoulders. It is comfortable enough to wear, but the weight does bear down on her after a time. Soon, her weapons and heavier pieces of armor are piled on the floor, leaving Lumen in only her leathers. Not the most comfortable sleeping attire, but it’s too cold to wear anything less in High Hrothgar.

“Come on,” Luka says, pulling back the heavy blankets and furs, motioning for Lumen to get into bed. “Get in and get some rest.”

“You certainly are being bossy,” she says, smiling softly to take the bite from her words. Despite her complaints, she does get in the bed. The lure of a soft bed and warm furs is too much for her tired, cold body to ignore.

He pulls the covers over her and returns the smile. “Cicero is not well enough to mother you, and someone has to do it,” he says. “It may as well be me.”

“You’re very good at it, Cicero will be pleased.”

“Sleep,” he orders, stepping away from her to check on Cicero.

Lumen reaches over and places her hand on his chest. She closes her eyes, and lets the steady, reassuring one-two thump of his heart lull her to sleep.

* * *

Cicero wakes-- at least, he thinks he is awake. It is a slow process. Much slower than what he’s used to. There is a weight on either side of him radiating warmth, and he is swathed in soft furs. It is almost enough to coax him back to sleep, but he needs to see where he is, and he needs to know where _she_ is.

“Listener?” The word comes out as a lazy slur, and he’d flinch if he had the energy to. His mouth is dry, and his lips and tongue feel clumsy and numb. But those are minor inconveniences compared to the hot, searing pain in his abdomen.

A deceptively gentle hand caresses his cheek. “I’m right here,” she says, her voice softer and more uncertain than what he’s used to hearing from the bold, brash elf. He wishes he had the will to open his eyes just to prove to himself that it’s actually her. But then she presses her lips to his forehead, and her hair falls around him, filling him with her familiar scent. She smells of lavender and leather, and the sulfuric tang of dragon’s fire. 

“What of the dragon? Did we kill him?” he asks, because he remembers fighting the great beast, but everything that came after is a painful blur.

She hesitates a moment before saying, “He flew back to Sovngarde to lick his wounds. But I know how to find him. No one hides from the Dark Brotherhood, right?”

He forces his eyes open upon hearing that, and he looks up at the worried faces of Luka and his Listener. “Sweet Lumen,” he sighs, and she smiles at the sound of her name falling from his lips; the only sign of brightness in a face shadowed with worry. “How will you get to Sovngarde? Please tell me you’re not thinking of doing anything-- _hasty_.”

“I’m going to ask the Jarl of Whiterun to let me trap a dragon in his palace,” she says, her voice light and airy. “Piece of cake.”

Cicero snorts, and then groans in pain. “Do not joke with poor Cicero,” he grumbles, clutching at his stomach, which is covered in bandages. “It hurts to laugh…”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “But it’s not a joke.” Her smile falters at his pain and her ears droop slightly. Cicero did not know they could do that, and he would love to giggle at how adorable she looks-- she hardly looks like the bloodthirsty murderer that she actually is. But he controls himself for the sake of his stitches.

“King Olaf captured a dragon and held it captive until it died. That’s why the palace is called Dragonsreach,” Luka tells them. “Hopefully the jarl will see reason and let you trap a dragon. I mean, you are trying to save the world, right?”

“The jarl may not see it that way,” Arnbjorn says. “It may be difficult to convince him that you’re not a madwoman-- which you _are_ , but not about this.”

Lumen lifts her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I’ll worry about that when we get to Whiterun,” she says, reaches forward to brush Cicero’s hair from his face. “How are you feeling, by the way? We can give you another potion for the pain if you need it.”

“Cicero is fine,” he says, only to be glared at by both Lumen and Luka. “It hurts, but Cicero has endured far worse. He would prefer to have his wits about him.”

Luka believes his lie more readily than Lumen does, but she does not call him out on it. Instead, she says, “Arngeir has been gradually healing you, and he reckons you will be on your feet in a day or two. We’ll head to Whiterun once you’re fit to travel.”

“You could go on ahead,” he says, immediately feeling wretched about delaying Lumen in anything. “Cicero could stay here with Luka and the kindly Greybeards, and--”

“I am not leaving you.” The tone of her voice brooks no argument, as does the look in her eyes. “We leave when you are ready and no sooner.”

“Very well, then,” he sighs. “It seems like you have your heart set on sitting here and watching poor Cicero convalesce.”

“You are rather cute when you are doing so.”

“I’d have to agree,” Luka says with a nod.

“Don’t believe them,” Arnbjorn cuts in, lowering his book and grinning. “You’ve been snoring and drooling the whole time.”

Cicero wrinkles his nose, hating for anyone to see him so out of sorts. “How long has Cicero been asleep?” he asks, gingerly sitting up and waving off his two nursemaids off when they try to help.

“A little over a day, those potions I gave you are very strong,” Luka says nervously. “You really should lie down, though…”

“Cicero would prefer to sit.”

At that, Lumen busies herself with piling pillows behind him so that he may sit up in bed, and he is grateful for her haste. Sitting got rid of the ache in his lower back, but it also bunched up the injured muscles in his abdomen, causing him a considerable amount of pain.

He sighs when he leans back against the pillows. “Cicero could get used to being pampered like this.” His voice dips into that lower, not often used register when he says, “I do love it when you are being _attentive_ , Sweet Lumen.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” she warns with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to pull a stitch.”

“What?” he gasps, feigning innocence giving both Lumen and Luka a plaintive look. “Cicero is only hoping to get _gently_ laid. It would be nice, considering all he’s been through.”

If Cicero is completely honest, and he always is, he is not in the mood for sex. He is, however, in the mood to tease his lovers and torment Arnbjorn. Doing both at the same time does seem to help ease his pain, at least.

“Oh, gods,” Arnbjorn groans. “Please don’t.”

Luka gives him a flat look. “Cicero, this is a monastery.”

“So? Cicero is no monk.”

“It would not be wise to offend the men who have agreed to take us in.” Lumen says, patting him on the thigh. “We wouldn't be having this conversation if it weren’t for Arngeir.”

“Ah, I suppose you have a point.”

Luka rises from where he sits by his side, announcing that he is going to the kitchens to find something for Cicero to eat. Broth, most likely. But he’ll be grateful to have something in his stomach after sleeping for so long. Arnbjorn marks a page in his book and mutters something about giving Cicero and Lumen a little privacy. It’s odd for the wolf to be so considerate, but he appreciates it all the same.

Once they are alone in the room, Lumen curls her hand behind his neck and kisses him firmly.  
The kiss surprises him. It’s not one of her usual, fierce, demanding kisses; nor is it one of the timid, shy ones she gives him when her guard has dropped. It is one made of fear and desperation.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again, jester,” she hisses before kissing him again, but softer this time.

“It is just a flesh wound, sweet Lumen,” he murmurs against her lips, reaching for humor because the Listener’s fear is unnerving. “It will take more than a dragon god to do Cicero in.”

That earns him a smile, and this time it’s Cicero who initiates the kiss. He understands how close he came to death, and he regrets causing his sweet Listener any pain. Apologizing, agonizing, and dwelling on it will get them nowhere. So he kisses her with all he is, drinking in her taste, her warmth, and her scent.

“Dragonborn, I heard-- _oh_. Pardon me, I’ll just return later.”

Lumen pulls away from him with a laugh. “Master Arngeir, wait,” she says.

The Greybeard pauses his slow flight from the room and turns around. “I apologize for interrupting, Dragonborn. But I heard your companion was awake. It is much easier to heal someone who is conscious, so I thought I might try now.”

“Cicero would appreciate more healing,” he says, trying to keep the strain from his voice for Lumen’s sake. But the pain is beginning to be a bit much, and he would prefer to be healthy and whole sooner rather than later. 

The Brotherhood has a god to kill, after all.

* * *

A week spent in High Hrothgar, and Lumen is ready to be on the road again. The peace and quiet is really starting to get on her nerves, and she finds herself yearning for a loud inn, full of music, laughter, and the occasional brawl. It has been an eventful week, all told. She’s spent most of her time doting on Cicero and training with the Greybeards. Despite their objections about her choice to kill Alduin, they are not the type of men to hold grudges. So when she asked Arngeir to help her train, he eagerly agreed. However, she had expected her training to involve more Shouting and less sitting.

“You are fidgeting, Dragonborn,” Arngeir says, a hint of amusement in his soft voice.

“Sorry,” she grumbles. “It’s just-- this floor is hard and my butt is cold.” The Greybeard smiles, and she immediately feels stupid for complaining to an old, arthritic man about her pains. But they have been sitting in the long hallway along the back of the monastery for hours. They have done _nothing_ but sit. No talking, no Shouting, no nothing! There’s only so much of this madness a woman can take!

“We can take a break for now,” Arngeir says kindly. “You seem a bit restless.”

“I am,” she admits, getting to her feet and offering Arngeir a hand. “I think I’ll go check on my br-- uh, my friends. We’re hoping to be out of your hair by tomorrow.”

“It has been no trouble having you and your friends here.” He accepts her help and rises slowly, but not unsteadily. “They Greybeards are here to assist you in any way possible, Dragonborn.”

“Thanks,” she says, albeit uncertainly, and searches the monastery for her brothers.

It is not difficult to find them-- all she has to do is follow the sound of shouting, which only grows in volume when she steps out into the snowy courtyard. There she finds Cicero warming himself by a brazier, watching Luka and Arnbjorn spar. Although, at the moment it seems like Luka is spending more time running away than actually sparring.

“Come on, kid! You can’t spend all your time running away! Try to strike me!”

“I am not running away!” Luka claims, while narrowly dodging a blow from Arnbjorn. “It’s called evasive maneuvering.”

Arnbjorn laughs at that. “If you learn how to throw a decent punch you won’t have to run away so much.”

“But if I get close enough to punch you, you will be close enough to punch me!”

“Then you dodge it.” A lop-sided grin appears on Arnbjorn’s face. “Which is also known as a ‘tactical retreat’.”

“But-- that’s what I’ve been doing!” Luka snaps, ostensibly annoyed until he sees Lumen. “Oh, hello Miss Lumen! How did your training go?”

“It went,” she says vaguely. She stands next to Cicero and wraps her arm around him, knowing she’s being overprotective and clingy, but not caring. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better!” he chirps, snuggling up to her. “Cicero is ready to be on the road again. The Greybeards are very nice, but they are also very boring. Poor Cicero would throw himself off the mountain if he had to live like this indefinitely.”

“Then you’ll be happy to know that I am planning to leave tomorrow,” she says, motioning for Luka and Arnbjorn to come closer. “I need to get to Whiterun so I can speak with Jarl Balgruuf. We were on good terms the last time we spoke. So the chances of him helping me are high.”

“On good terms with the jarl, eh?” Cicero grins at her. “Did you use your feminine wiles to sway him?”

Lumen snorts. “No. I saved his very flammable city from a dragon.”

“Do you have a plan?” Arnbjorn asks. “You can’t just show up and call in an old favor.”

“I can’t?” Lumen asks, deflating a little. “That’s what I had planned.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great, tidbit. Of course that was your plan,” he grumbles. “Perhaps you should start by politely asking the jarl for a favor, and offering to do something for him in return.”

“What if the jarl asks for something-- unsavory?” Cicero asks.

“If it were any other jarl I would be worried, but Jarl Balgruuf is decent. He won’t ask for anything unsavory.”

“You seem awfully familiar with him.”

“I grew up in Whiterun. I didn’t know the jarl personally, but my father had dealings with him on occasion,” he explains, looking a bit uncomfortable at the mention of his estranged father. “He always said he was a fair man.”

“Good. Maybe things will work out in our favor.” Lumen shivers when a gust of wind stirs up the snow in the courtyard. “I’m going back inside. It’s freezing out here.”

“Cicero will come with you, sweet Lumen,” the Keeper says, falling into stride beside her. “Poor Cicero’s feet went numb ages ago.”

“Oh, come on,” Arnbjorn calls after them, laughing. “It’s not even cold!”

“It’s brisk and refreshing out here,” Luka says.

“Nords,” Cicero snorts.

* * *

The journey to Whiterun is easy-going compared to most of Lumen’s ventures across Skyrim. The weather is decent, and most bandits think better of attacking a group of heavily armed individuals who travel with a maniacal jester.

Lumen spends most of her time keeping her eyes on Cicero rather than the road-- that’s what Arnbjorn and Luka are for anyway. The Keeper seems to be doing well; happily riding on Shadowmere’s back, humming a soft tune and seemingly oblivious to the number of eyes on him. Lumen knows that _he knows_ he’s being watched, and he is basking in the attention. Both she and Luka have been watching Cicero, but for completely different reasons.

All that is left of his severe injury is an angry, pink scar, but Lumen is afraid something might happen to him if she takes her eyes off him for even a moment. She will eventually have to, but for now she is content to keep watch over him. Luka, however, is in deep study of the way Cicero’s hips roll with the motion of the horse, his thighs tensing and relaxing with each step.

Lumen manages to catch Luka’s eye and she winks at him, which only causes the mage to blush and look away. She knows exactly what he’s up to, and she’s willing to help. Without Luka and Arngeir, Cicero would not have made it. There’s no way she can adequately express her gratitude, but she can arrange for the two to have a little time alone.

So when they arrive in Whiterun, Lumen hands Cicero a coinpurse and says, “Why don’t you and Luka go to the inn and get us some rooms? You look like you could use a rest anyway.”

“As you wish, sweet Lumen,” he says, albeit confused. “But Cicero is perfectly fine. You needn’t worry about him so.”

“I know,” she says, patting him on the cheek. “I won’t worry as long as Luka is seeing to your needs.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” the Keeper purrs, his lips twisting into a grin when he finally understands what Lumen is implying. He steps over to Luka and tugs on the sleeve of his robe. “Come now, Lumen wishes for us to purchase rooms before the inn fills up.”

“Right,” Luka says stiffly, staring wide-eyed at Lumen before following Cicero to the inn.

“Take good care of him,” Lumen calls after them. “Be gentle!”

“Y-yes, Miss Lumen,” he calls back, stumbling over the hem of his robe. “I’ll d-do my best!”

“What was that all about?” Arnbjorn asks.

Lumen grins to herself as she watches the two vanish inside the inn. “Oh, just trying to help Cicero get laid, is all,” she says. “Do you think it’ll work?”

He groans. “I don’t want to think about it,” he says, walking away from her and up the staircase that leads to the Gildergreen. He walks quickly, skirting around the tree and over to the path that lead to Dragonsreach before Lumen makes it to the top of the first set of stairs.

“Will you slow down?” she huffs, annoyed at being rushed.

“Will you hurry up?” he growls.

“Excuse me, miss,” comes a tiny, frightened voice. “Could you spare a coin?”

She stops in her tracks, looking side-to-side before finally looking down. A small, filthy Imperial child stands in front of of her, her face and clothes smudged with weeks worth of dirt. “Uh, sure,” Lumen says lamely. Any other day, she’d tell the child to get lost. But she’s here as the Dragonborn and as such, she has to behave and play the part of the hero. At least-- that’s what she’s telling herself. She’d rather believe that than admit that she actually feels sorry for the little street urchin. “Arnbjorn!” she shouts. “I need some money! I gave Cicero my coinpurse!”

Arnbjorn grumbles as he stalks around the tree to where Lumen and the child stand. “Was it really necessary to scream my name in front of Jorrvaskr?” he hisses, trying to keep calm for the sake of the little waif.

“I didn’t scream,” Lumen murmurs, casting a wary eye to the mead hall. “But-- the kid.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, pulling five septims from his own coinpurse. “I didn’t know you were such a soft touch.”

Lumen bites back a scathing retort as she snatches the gold from him. “Here,” she says, dropping the coins in the child’s awaiting hands. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

The little girl gasps, her tiny fingers clutching the coins and holding them to her chest. She clearly hadn’t expected to receive such a large amount. It isn’t much, but it’s the best Lumen can do. At least the child can eat a decent meal. “Thank you so much,” she says, looking up at Lumen and Arnbjorn in awe. “Will you be my mama and papa?”

Lumen makes a strangled noise, too shocked to respond. Long ago she knew that she would never have children -- Malrian made certain of that. He gave her so much Silphium at a young age, it rendered her completely barren. It never bothered her, though. She’s never desired to have children, and she certainly has never considered adopting one off the street.

When it becomes clear that Lumen has gone mute, Arnbjorn says, “Sorry kid, but we don’t exactly have a place for you to live.”

“I could travel with you!” the little girl pleads. “I can carry your things.”

“Lucia, what have I told you about trying to go home with random strangers?”

Lumen turns to see a tall, broad shouldered warrior striding down the front steps of Jorrvaskr. He is covered from head to toe in armor and furs, the emblem of a wolf on his chest, and a tattoo on his face. Most striking of all is the shockingly white hair on his head, and his cold silver eyes. Even more surprising is the fact that he looks like an older version of Arnbjorn…

She turns to glance an Arnbjorn. His expression is unreadable, but the set of his shoulders betrays his discomfort. Now she understands why he was in such a hurry to get to Dragonsreach. There’s no doubt about it-- the man standing before him is Kodlak Whitemane, Arnbjorn’s estranged father.

The man has yet to notice them, as his attention is focused on Lucia. But there is no time to run, and Arnbjorn is not the type to run from a confrontation anyway, no matter how awkward it is.

Lucia runs off, and Kodlak finally turns to greet them. “Thank you for your kindness, but--” his voice falters when he lays eyes on them. There is a mixture of fury and sadness warring across his features, as if he is torn between embracing his son or breaking his nose. 

“Kodlak,” Arnbjorn says, resigned. “It’s been a while.”

“It certainly has,” he says, a deep sorrow edging into his voice. “I had hoped to see you sooner, my son. How long has it been?”

“Not long enough,” Arnbjorn snarls. “Don’t insult me by pretending you’re happy to see me. You cast me out.”

“That I did. Your methods were-- unsettling, and not honorable,” Kodlak sighs. “But I didn’t disown you. You are still my son whether you like it or not.”

Arnbjorn takes a deep breath, but he does not respond. Of all the things he may have been expecting to hear from Kodlak, that has not been it. Lumen shifts uncomfortably, feeling like an interloper in a very private conversation. A nosy as she is, this is not something she wishes to be a part of.

As the silence grows between father and son, so does Lumen’s discomfort. She decides the only way to ease the situation is to create a distraction of her own. So she steps closer to Arnbjorn, curling her hand around his forearm and giving it a gentle tug. His muscles stiffen beneath her touch, but he does not pull away from her.

“Well,” she breathes, feeling suddenly very small in the shadow of the two, tall Nords. “This has been-- _awkward_ , to say the least, and I do hate to interrupt but we have urgent business with the jarl.”

Arnbjorn does not look like he appreciates her weak attempt at rescuing him from an uncomfortable situation. He looks more like he wants to strangle her, and he might before the day is through. “She’s right,” he says, much to her surprise. “Time is of the essence in this matter.”

“Is there anything I can--” Kodlak hesitates, clearly thinking better of his offer to help. “Are you in trouble?”

Lumen can hear Arnbjorn grinding his teeth. “Uh, we’re not in trouble-- er-- well, if I am being honest, the entire world is in trouble,” she babbles, and her babbling only gets worse when Kodlak turns his cold eyes to her. “Um-- you see-- I’m the Dragonborn and Arnbjorn has been helping me. We faced Alduin at the Throat of the World, but he escaped, and now I need a favor from the jarl so I can chase him down.”

She hates throwing her Dragonborn title around, but her stories made for good ones, and if she’s going to be saving the damn world, then people ought to know who she is so they can show her some godsdamned gratitude.

Something akin to pride lights in Kodlak’s eyes, much to Arnbjorn’s dismay. “Truly?” he asks. “All we could see from here was a large storm raging above the clouds.”

“That would be Alduin’s doing,” Lumen says gravely. “Anyway, we really must be going. Perhaps you two can catch up later?”

“Of course, Dragonborn.” He takes a step away, but then, to Arnbjorn he says, “You know where to find me if you need me, son.”

“I do,” Arnbjorn says stiffly, before grabbing Lumen by the hand and practically dragging her up the steps to the Cloud District.

“That was weird,” she says, struggling to keep up with him. “What happened between you two?”

“Not a word, tidbit,” he warns. 

“I’m just wondering what you did to piss him off enough to cast you out,” she says, stepping onto the planked walkway that leads to the palace doors. “He said your methods were unsettling, which is vague. I bet it’s an interesting story.”

Arnbjorn whirls around to face her and Lumen immediately regrets rattling on about his father kicking him out of the Companions. While he’s an assassin through and through, being cast out by his father is clearly a sore subject. “Drop it,” he growls. “I mean it.”

“Fine,” she mumbles, feeling like a chastised little girl rather than the legendary Dragonborn. 

The two assassins enter Dragonsreach, the palace smelling pleasantly of woodsmoke and spice. The people within are less pleasant. They watch Lumen and Arnbjorn as they make the long walk to the throne. It’s not as if the long lost Dragonborn expects much of a reception, but something other than suspicious glares would be nice.

“It has been a long time, Dragonborn,” Balgruuf says, slouching in his throne. “You look well.”

“Forgive my prolonged absence, my jarl,” she says, striving for politeness. “But I have been trying to find out more about the dragons and how to stop them.”

Balgruuf sits straighter now, a little more interested in what she has to say. “And? What have you discovered?” he asks.

Lumen takes a breath, fully preparing herself to be laughed out of the palace. “Alduin the World-Eater has returned.” The gasps from those gathered tell her that she’s got their undivided attention, so she continues with a little more confidence than before. “My associate and I faced him at the Throat of the World, but he ran away-- back to Sovngarde to feast on the souls there.”

Balgruuf is deadly silent. His steward, Proventus, steps forward. “Bah, this sounds like a bunch of nonsense designed to stir up trouble,” he says.

“It isn’t nonsense!” a heavy-set Nord growls. “All _Nords_ know the story of the World-Eater!”

“Stop it, both of you,” the jarl says as he stands. “Alduin’s return means the end times, does it not?”

“It does,” she nods, keeping a wary eye on the jarl’s steward. “But there is a way to stop him.”

“How?”

“I… I need to trap a dragon. Here. In your palace.”

To her surprise, Balgruuf laughs, along with his steward and bodyguard. “I’m sorry, Dragonborn. I thought you just said you wanted to trap a dragon in my palace.”

“That’s exactly what I said, my jarl.”

“Have you gone mad?” he asks, before collecting himself. “I want to help you, Dragonborn, but there is a war on my doorstep--”

“Alduin is more of a threat to your city than the war!” she shouts, only for Irileth to step forward in warning.

“General Tullius and Ulfric will not just sit idle while my men are distracted with this task,” he says calmly, unaffected by her impudence. “They are both waiting for me to make a wrong move. I cannot risk my city.”

“What if you didn’t have to worry about them?” She hasn’t a clue how to deal with Tullius or Ulfric. But she is good at killing people. She’ll figure something out.

“Then I would be glad to help you,” he says, looking very tired. The stress of war has worn on him since she last saw him nearly a year ago. “But getting both sides to agree to a temporary truce will be impossible.”

“I’m getting pretty good at handling impossible tasks,” she says, chancing a smile. “There has to be a way to bring them both together to talk peacefully. Alduin is a threat to everyone in Tamriel, surely they will see reason.”

“The Greybeards,” he says suddenly. “They are respected by all Nords, and High Hrothgar is neutral territory. If you could get them to host a peace council, then Ulfric and General Tullius would have no choice but to attend.”

“All right,” Lumen sighs, trying to figure out exactly how she’s going to pull this off. “I’ll get the Greybeards to agree, and I will send word when I have a date set for the council.”

The jarl slumps back into his throne. “You seem very confident in your abilities, Dragonborn. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf,” she says, sketching a quick bow, then turning on her heel to stride out of the palace. When the door swings shut behind her she hears an explosion of voices. No doubt Balgruuf’s advisors want to weigh in. She is just glad she doesn’t have to hear it.

Once outside of the palace, Arnbjorn breaks his silence. “He doesn’t believe you can do this.”

“I know he doesn’t,” Lumen admits, walking down the twisting steps. “But I don’t care. Nothing motivates me more than the desire to prove someone wrong. I’ll get Ulfric and Tullius to play nice if it’s the last thing I do.”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Arnbjorn says, grinning at her. “Perhaps you can just annoy them until they agree. You’re good at that.”

“Do you know much about the war?” Lumen asks, ignoring his jibe. “I think I need to do some research before I talk to either of them.”

“Come on, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says, resting his hand on her lower back and leading her through the city. “Let’s go to the inn. I need some mead before I give you a history lesson.”

* * *

The inn is crowded and lively when she and Arnbjorn walk in, and they find Cicero and Luka sitting at a private table in the corner. Cicero is grinning, looking rather pleased with himself. While Luka is blushing and desperately trying to tame his tousled hair. She and Cicero share a look-- a look that tells him she expects to hear about what happened between the Keeper and the mage. Maybe even a reenactment. One that she is part of, preferably. With all that is resting on her shoulders, she could certainly use a distraction.

Arnbjorn goes to order drinks, while Lumen takes a seat next to Cicero. “So, bad news,” she begins. “I have to go back to High Hrothgar and convince the Greybeards to hold a peace council.”

“A peace council?” Luka asks. “What for?”

“The jarl won’t let me trap a dragon in his palace unless Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius agree to a temporary truce.”

“It sounds like this jarl is sending you on a wild-goose chase,” Cicero says, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. “But if you could temporarily stop this war, that could work out for you.”

“In what way?” she asks, gratefully accepting a tankard of mead from Arnbjorn when he arrives with drinks. “I’m just trying to convince the jarl to let me use his palace for a little dragon-trapping and nothing more.”

“If word got out, you would have the support of the people,” Luka tells her. “Tullius and Ulfric may want this war, but the people of Skyrim do not.”

“And I need the support of ‘the people’ why?” 

“That gives you power, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says slowly. “Influence. You need their support if you are to bend these jarls to your will.”

“I’m an _assassin_ ,” she hisses. “I don’t want influence! I don’t want to be known! And I don’t want to bend these jarls to my will-- I just want them to stop fighting over their stupid gods for a few days so I can trap a fucking dragon!”

“You may be the Listener,” Cicero says quietly, even though they aren’t likely to be overheard in the noisy inn. “But you are also the Dragonborn. In a way, you are living two different lives.”

“Great. That’s wonderful. I’ve always wanted to have a secret identity,” Lumen growls, pausing her complaining to gulp down some mead, hoping the alcohol will burn away her irritation. “All right, so tell me what to do, because I honestly don’t know.”

“You remember what Madanach told us, don’t you? The Empire is not faring so well here ever since we took care of the emperor. So, if you ask me, I think you should appeal more to Ulfric than Tullius.” Cicero runs his finger along the rim of his mug, deep in thought. “A Nord is more likely to appreciate the Dragonborn, and what she has to say, than an Imperial general.”

“Shouldn’t Madanach weigh in on this?” she asks. “Shouldn’t he be at the peace council as well?”

“He’s a fugitive, Miss Lumen. He could be arrested-- or even executed on the spot. I doubt he would appreciate being involved in this mess.”

“Both the Stormcloaks and the Imperials have a nasty history with the Forsworn,” Arnbjorn tells her. “Getting all three in the same room would cause an all out war.”

“So I should talk to both Ulfric and Tullius, but try to get on Ulfric's good side?” she asks. “All while leaving Madanach in the dark?”

Luka shrugs. “I don’t care for Ulfric’s brand of politics, but I like the Empire and the Thalmor even less. As for our Forsworn friend, you should perhaps warn him. Although, I do not see how the peace talks would truly affect him. They may, or they may not.”

“Cicero thinks Madanach would like to know what’s going on. He will find out eventually, but it would be best if he heard it from you. He seems to like you.”

She looks to Arnbjorn, who is quiet for a long time. “As a Companion, I was raised to be neutral when it came to politics, and as an assassin, I took the same stance,” he says, pursing his lips in thought. “But this is different, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

“I don’t care what you do in regards to the Forsworn. They could prove to be an ally or a nuisance. Only time will tell.” Arnbjorn heaves a sigh before continuing. “I really hate to admit this, but-- I agree with Cicero. Appeal to Ulfric. You being the Dragonborn will mean more to him since he’s a Nord--” he pauses. “Or it will offend him because you’re an elf. Best talk to him first just to find out.”

Lumen rubs her temples and falls silent. She _can_ do this, even though a little, derisive voice is telling her otherwise. She doesn’t _want_ to do this, however. The world of politics is something she has little love for, even though she has killed for politicians. But that is different. It’s her job to kill for whoever has enough coin. But this? Trying to appeal to powerful men, and hoping they don’t toss her out on her ear? This is insane.

“I need to get out of this crowd,” she says, pushing away from the table, and not bothering to ask Cicero for a key to their room. He will follow her, anyway.

He is there by her side in an instant, guiding her to their room and opening the door. It closes, and the noise of the crowd is only a distant murmur. She expects Cicero to speak, but he remains silent as he begins to remove the heavy pieces of her armor. For a moment she is lost in his attentions. He moves across the old floorboards with nary a sound. His feet always so silent and sure, and his fingers quick and nimble, working the straps of her armor with practiced efficiency. 

Once free of her heavy armor, she crosses the room, the floorboards creaking in her wake. A relieved sigh escapes her when she sits on the soft bed and kicks off her boots. “Well, are you going to tell me what you got up to this afternoon?” she asks, preferring to distract herself with tales of debauchery, rather than talk of politicians.

A flicker of genuine surprise passes over his features, before a smirk settles on his lips. “Curious, are we?” he asks. “Cicero’s afternoon could not have been more interesting than yours.”

“I bet it was,” she says, tugging her leathers off and tossing them on the floor. “Stop being so evasive and just spill.”

He walks toward the bed, slowly and silently. “And what does Cicero get for indulging your curiosity?” he asks, the question a distant echo of a moment in the past when Lumen was full of questions and Cicero did nothing but tease. Like now. But she is not the same, skittish initiate she was then. 

“A happy Listener,” she says. “And when the Listener is happy, _everyone_ is happy.”

“You have a point, there,” he laughs and sits down beside her. “Cicero is sorry to disappoint you, but nothing happened.”

“What? No way! I saw the way you both looked when I came in,” Lumen counters, swearing she’ll throttle the little jester if he’s holding out on her. “ _Something_ happened.”

“Nothing more than Cicero relentlessly teasing our sweet mage,” he says. “You know how flustered he gets.” At Lumen’s suspicious glare, Cicero sighs. “The truth is, I am still very sore, and I saw no reason to exacerbate the injury.”

“We left High Hrothgar too soon,” Lumen says, feeling incredibly guilty for making a wounded Cicero travel so far. “The scar looked healed, but I didn’t consider the state of your muscles.”

“Healed, but sore,” he says, scooting close to her and resting his head on her shoulder. “Please do not worry about Cicero, you have enough on your mind.”

“I don’t often have cause to worry about you,” she murmurs against his hair, and wrapping her arms around him. “But you can’t tell me you don’t enjoy the attention.”

Cicero smiles against her neck, not bothering to state the obvious. “So, are we leaving for High Hrothgar soon?”

Lumen groans. “We’ll leave tomorrow, if you are feeling up to it.”

“And after that?”

After a moment's pause, she says, “Karthspire.”

“Really?” he asks, pulling away so he can look her in the eyes. “Decided to warn Madanach after all?”

“That, and Delphine has something I need. When I raided the Thalmor Embassy, I found a dossier on Ulfric Stormcloak. I thought I might give it to him as a show of goodwill. I left it with Delphine because I didn’t think I would need it. But, it seems like I may have use of it now.”

“He might see it as a threat,” Cicero says. “Blackmail.”

“It’s a risk I’ll have to take,” she says quietly, pulling him back into the cradle of her arms and not wishing to speak anymore of all that she must accomplish if she’s to save the world. “But before I deal with any jarls or generals, we’re going _home_. Mother needs you, and I think we’ve all earned a rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments on the last chapter! I feel like I scared everyone. XD You didn’t really think I’d kill off poor Cicero, did you? ;)
> 
> Sorry about the Cicero/Luka tease. (My beta yelled at me for that!) But the truth is, I just didn’t think any sort of smut really fit with this particular chapter. Actually, I have decided not to write anymore detailed smut for this fic. Don’t worry, there will be little teasers here and there, but they will be “fade to black” scenes, rather than a long-winded smut-fest. I’ll save that for my kinkmeme fills and whatnot. I am sorry if that disappoints anyone, but I’d rather not have it in the fic if it doesn’t advance the plot/character development.


	34. Uneasy Alliances

The Greybeards had been surprised to see Lumen back so soon, and they had been downright annoyed when she asked them to hold a peace council. She understood why they weren’t pleased. They had never wished to be involved in political affairs, and neither did she. But in the end, Arngeir had said, “Paarthurnax has made the decision to help you. This is the road we have to walk. Even the Greybeards must bend to the winds of change, it seems. So be it. Tell Ulfric and General Tullius that the Greybeards wish to speak to them. We will see if they still remember us.”

Now Lumen approaches the gates of Karthspire. The Forsworn camp seems to grow and expand every time she visits, and now the place is a veritable fortress. Madanach has been very busy, it seems. The camp’s population has grown as well, and Lumen stares up at the wooden ramparts, searching for a familiar face and finding none.

“I wouldn’t come any closer, if I were you!” A guard hefts a spear aloft, ready to strike. “Go back the way you came, traveler!”

Lumen pats Shadowmere's neck after his ears flick backwards at the man’s threat, the last thing she needs is for her horse to attack the man once they get through the gates. “I need to speak with Madanach!” she calls to the guard. “Tell him the Dragonborn is here to see him!”

“Yeah, sure, and I’m Tiber Septim himself,” the guard says, and the other men on the ramparts start to laugh. “Go on now! Off with you!”

Behind her, she can hear Cicero mutter something about Shouting him off the ramparts, but she ignores him, even though the temptation to follow through is strong. “Where is Uraccen?” she asks. “He’ll recognize me.”

“Recognize you from where, little elf? I certainly don’t recognize you.” 

“From this very camp!” she snarls, and the guards snicker at her obvious annoyance. “I met him here!”

“Ah, and now you’ve met me, but I’m still not letting you in,” the guard says cheerfully, as he winks at her. “Now go on, I would hate to have to stick a spear through your pretty, little head!”

“Give me a fucking break,” she hisses under her breath. “I have information that Madanach will want to hear! So go get Uraccen, or Borkul--” she pauses, wondering if he’ll let her in if she rattles off enough names. “Or even Liadan, if you are allowed to speak with her, that is.”

Upon hearing the name of their resident hagraven, some of the guards begin to murmur amongst themselves. The particular guard that has been giving her grief lowers his spear, and after a hushed conversation with his fellow warriors he says, “You wait right there, little elf.” And then he vanishes over the edge of the ramparts, presumably to fetch Uraccen.

“Is it a prerequisite for _all guards_ to be annoying shits?” Lumen dismounts Shadowmere, taking the horse by the reigns to keep him still so Cicero may do the same. She ordered Luka and Arnbjorn to go on ahead, and they would catch up later down the road. This visit shouldn’t take long. All she has to do is speak with Madanach and get that dossier from Delphine.

Cicero grunts when his feet hit the ground. “It seems like it,” he says. “It also seems like the title of ‘Dragonborn’ carries little weight around the Forsworn.”

“I noticed,” she says, still prickling with irritation from being laughed at. 

Minutes pass, and Lumen’s annoyance grows. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and folds her arms with a huff. While she certainly doesn’t expect the Forsworn to roll out the red carpet for her, a _little_ respect would be nice. She and Madanach have a working relationship, after all.

Finally the gates open, and the annoying guard waves them in. “Come on, little elf. It seems like you aren’t completely full of hot air.”

Uraccen stands beside the guard, grinning at Lumen’s obvious irritation. “You’ll have to forgive him,” he says. “He’s new to this and a little over-eager.”

“I can tell,” she says, patting Shadowmere and leaving him to graze inside the gates. “I realize my visit is unexpected, but I have news for Madanach.”

“What sort of news?” Uraccen asks. “He is rather busy, but I am sure he’ll make time for you if it’s important.”

“I’m supposed to convince Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius to meet at High Hrothgar to engage in peace talks,” Lumen says tersely. “You think he might be interested in hearing about that?”

“Follow me, Dragonborn,” he says quickly. “Madanach will definitely want to hear of this.”

Lumen sticks her tongue out at the annoying guard as she passes him by, and holds her head high as she follows Uraccen through the crowded camp. Cicero is at her side, humming a soft tune as his keen eyes scan the area, searching for any sign of danger to his Listener. The gentle, lilting melody is a stark contrast to the organized chaos of the Forsworn camp. There are people constantly moving about the camp and children running free, left to their own devices while their parents work.

Uraccen leads them to the far side of the camp, where the noise of the main camp is merely a distant murmur rather than a lively din. Madanach is pointing out something on a map of Skyrim, having a hushed conversation with Borkul and a small group of Forsworn warriors. They look a bit older than the warriors guarding the gates, and she wonders if they are leaders of the various camps that have joined Madanach at Karthspire.

“Wait here,” Uraccen murmurs, stepping away from Cicero and Lumen to whisper in Madanach’s ear. 

The old warlord’s posture grows tense at the news. “Dismissed, all of you,” he barks. “We’ll continue this later. Something has just come up.” Uraccen inclines his head and leaves the area with the Forsworn warriors trailing behind him, and Madanach turns to face Lumen and Cicero. “Tell me why _you_ of all people are organizing a peace talk.”

“Because no one else will do it, apparently.” Lumen perches on the edge of the table, nervously fiddling with the belts of her armor. “And because I need to trap a dragon in Dragonsreach, but Balgruuf won’t help me unless Ulfric and Tullius agree to a temporary truce. And before you ask, _no_ , I don’t know why he thinks I can organize this. Diplomacy isn’t exactly my strong point. I kill my enemies, I don’t bargain with them.”

“He thinks you can do it because you’re the Dragonborn,” Madanach says, groaning softly as he sits in a nearby chair. “What he doesn’t know is that you’re the leader of a cult of assassins and that the emperor’s blood is on your hands.” He scratches his chin and narrows his eyes at her. “Why come here, though?”

“I thought you’d like to know,” she says with a shrug. “And maybe I thought you’d have some advice for me.”

He laughs at that. “I appreciate the courtesy,” he says, offering her a tight smile. “Exactly what sort of advice do you think I can offer?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “I don’t even know what happens at a peace council. Do I just make Ulfric and Tullius hug it out?”

“Now that is something I would like to see,” he says, laughing again, although his laugh is more bitter than it was before. “I can’t say what _will_ happen, but I suppose I can give you a rough idea. Peace talks typically include land trades, prisoner exchanges, and weregild payments. Things like that. Although I doubt you will be in charge of such matters, you just have to get Ulfric and Tullius together in the same room without a fight breaking out.”

“Wait-- The Empire has control of Markarth right now. What will you do if Ulfric demands it?”

Madanach is deathly quiet for many minutes, and Lumen regrets even asking such a question. “Do you think he’ll ask for it?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “I would, if I were him. Those silver mines are worth a fortune.”

“ _If_ Ulfric asks for Markarth, and _if_ he gets his way, do me a favor and let me know, will you?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, watching Madanach closely. He’s acting a bit strange. She’d expected a more violent reaction to the news of peace talks and to the possibility of Markarth falling under Stormcloak control. He paid the Dark Brotherhood well to deal with the Silver-Bloods. Surely he’d be angry to know it was all for nothing.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks gruffly. “I have more important things to do than to be gawked at by a silly elf.”

“I’m not gawking, I’m thinking,” Lumen snaps.

“Think elsewhere,” he says, pushing away from the chair and coming to stand at the table. “And get off my map.”

“I thought you’d be more upset about this.”

“What do you expect me to do, girl?” he asks, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Rant and rave, and toss a few fireballs around for good measure? I can’t stop the inevitable. But I can plan for it. Now, go on. I have things to do.”

Lumen sighs and hops off the table. “Right. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says, not bothering to hide her annoyance at being unceremoniously shooed away. “Come on, Cicero, let’s go find Delphine.”

* * *

Sky Haven temple is cleaner than Lumen recalls. Noisier, too. There are recruits milling about the large temple, all shooting curious glances her way. She finds Delphine in the temple’s main hall, pouring over some documents and old books. The stormy expression on Delphine's face only grows darker when she sees Lumen walk in.

“You’ve been busy,” Lumen says, trying to keep her voice light. She and Delphine have always had an uneasy relationship, and something tells her it’s about to get even worse. Although she isn’t sure why Delphine looks so angry. “I thought you were trying to keep a low profile?”

“Nothing remains a secret forever, Dragonborn,” Delphine says. “But the Empire is too busy trying to appoint a new emperor to care about us, and the Forsworn have taken care of the few, scant Thalmor patrols that have wandered too close to the temple.” She pushes away from the table and walks over to Lumen. Even though the Breton stands a few inches shorter than her, she is no less intimidating. “How can I help you, Lumen? I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

“I need the dossier on Ulfric Stormcloak,” she says, trying not to let Delphine’s grim mood affect her. “Do you still have it?”

“I do, and I’ll give it to you. But why do you need it?”

“I’m going to give it to Ulfric,” she says, and the murmur of the recruit’s quiet conversations suddenly vanishes. Delphine says nothing, but she motions for Lumen to follow her. She leads her up a large staircase and into a small room outfitted with a bed, a dresser, and numerous weapon racks. “Ah, this must be your room. This is definitely your style.”

“Hush.” Delphine closes the door to the room, which only adds to Lumen’s mounting frustration with the woman. “Why are you giving Ulfric the dossier?”

“I need him to trust me. If I give him the dossier, it’ll be a show of good faith, right?”

“Or he’ll kill you on the spot for knowing what’s in it!”

“He’s not going to kill the Dragonborn,” Lumen snorts.

“Cicero would like to know what Delphine is so afraid of.” He’s not pleased with the way Delphine spoke to his Listener, but the Grandmaster’s palpable fear has him concerned. “Is Ulfric such a brute that he would kill a potential ally?”

“Maybe,” Delphine says, forcing her voice into something more calm. “He killed the High King without a moment’s hesitation. According to my sources, the High King had been willing to speak with Ulfric. But Ulfric used the power of the _Thu’um_ against him and killed him.”

“I’m not the High King,” Lumen says, folding her arms and huffing in irritation. Ulfric is just a man, but everyone is making him out to be something more, and it’s annoying. “I’m not a politician, and I am not doing this for any gain. So will you just give me the dossier so I can be on my way?”

“Fine,” Delphine sighs and turns away to search through a locked chest. Lumen watches the woman curiously. She seemed so angry when Lumen showed up, although she gave no indication as to why. While Delphine is a serious woman, she is not one to give in to anger without reason. But right now, Lumen has no wish to find out what her reason is. She’ll ask later, perhaps, when she’s done catering to jarls and generals.

“Thank you,” she says as Delphine places the worn dossier in her hands. “Oh, I almost forgot, there will be a peace conference at High Hrothgar soon, you should come. It should be interesting.”

“It might be boring,” Cicero says. “Politicians are only interesting when they’re doing something naughty, and a peace negotiation is hardly naughty.”

“Wait-- a peace conference? When?” Delphine gasps. “And why?”

“I don’t know when. Soon, though,” she says with more confidence than she truly feels. “And I am tired of explaining why. Go ask Madanach. He knows all about it.”

“Of course he does,” the Breton says with some annoyance.

“Anyway, thanks for the dossier,” she says, reaching to the door. “I’ll see you at High Hrothgar.”

“Lumen, wait--” Delphine steps forward, placing her hand on the door of her small bedroom, effectively trapping the assassins inside. “There’s something else,” she says, and Lumen doesn’t miss the hint of danger threading through the Breton’s voice.

“Okay,” she speaks slowly, drawing out the word. Her eyes flick to Cicero, and even though his lips are quirked into a tight smile, she does not miss the gleam of annoyance in his eyes. He’s a mere second away from pulling his knife on her, and Lumen doesn’t think she could keep him from killing her. The first time Cicero met Delphine, he held a knife to her throat for ‘manhandling’ his Listener, and ever since then he’s had a chip on her shoulder in regards to the woman.

“I know about Paarthurnax.”

“Good for you?” 

Delphine sighs, exasperated with the Dragonborn for the umpteenth time. “Did you know that Paarthurnax was the right hand of Alduin? Did you know that he committed atrocities that are so infamous that they are still remembered, thousands of years later?”

“I like this dragon more and more,” Cicero murmurs.

“I didn’t know that,” Lumen admits, a cold, prickle of dread skittering down her spine. She knows what Delphine is going to ask, and she also knows that it’s going to go very poorly when she refuses. “But he’s hardly committing atrocities now.”

“So? He needs to pay for his crimes!”

“What exactly are you asking me to do, Delphine?” Lumen asks, drawing herself up to her full height, staring down at the shorter woman.

“I’m asking you to do your duty as the Dragonborn and kill him.”

“No.”

“Why?” she demands, incensed. 

“Because he helped me,” Lumen says, annoyed that she even has to explain herself at this point. “And because I like him.”

“You like him?” she asks. “That’s your basis for letting his crimes go unpunished? You _like_ him?”

“Yes.” Lumen folds her arms. “And don’t act like you were affected by his crimes. It’s not as if you were around when he was-- I don’t know, razing villages and roasting sheep, or whatever. Although I can’t imagine him doing anything like that. He’s like an old, lazy cat. Sleeping his days away in the sun.”

“Meanwhile his victims--”

“Are dead! If he’d not got to them, they’d be dead anyway! It was a thousand years ago!” She starts laughing, which only makes Delphine glower at her even more. “Damn, Delphine. Let it go.”

“I would be forgoing my oath as a Blade if I ‘let it go’!” She starts to pace around the small room. “He deserves to die for his crimes! He helped Alduin enslave our ancestors!”

“Then _you_ kill him.”

“You know I can’t!” Delphine snaps. “It falls to you!”

“I won’t do it,” Lumen says, her voice firm. “He’s guided me. He even helped me fight Alduin at the Throat of the World! Whatever he was in the past, he isn’t now!”

“He may have betrayed Alduin in the end, but that makes him worse, not better. What if he betrays you in turn, and return to his old master? What then, Dragonborn?”

“If that happens-- and it _won’t_ , by the way. But if it does, then I will kill him.”

“How many countless people will have to die in the meantime?”

Lumen rolls her shoulders, trying to release the tension building between them. How can she explain to Delphine that she really doesn’t give a damn about any of this? His past victims are long dead, and who cares about his figurative, future ones? “I can see this means a lot to you,” she says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm creeping into her voice. “But I’m not going to kill him. No matter how much you push, no matter how many times you ask, my answer will always remain the same.”

“Then we’re done,” Delphine says, shaking her head. “As a Blade, I can no longer aid you if you refuse to do this. You’re either for us, or you’re against us.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lumen snarls, her _Thu’um_ rumbling low in her throat, triggered by her outrage. “I refuse to kill the one civilized dragon in Skyrim and you’re kicking me out?”

Delphine looks a bit nervous upon hearing her _Thu’um_ , but she does not waver. “The Blades are dragonslayers. Refusing to kill Paarthurnax marks you as an enemy.”

Lumen grits her teeth, wishing to speak-- to insult the woman standing before her because she is unable to do much else. But the fury burning in her soul is triggering her _Thu’um_ and she knows her next words will be just as much of a danger to her as they are to Delphine.

“Time to go,” Cicero sing-songs. His hand curls around Lumen’s arm, and he practically drags her out of the small bedroom and down the stairs that lead to the main hall of the temple. “Not another word, sweetness! Cicero would rather not have an entire temple brought down upon his head!”

Lumen decides to heed Cicero’s good advice, and keeps her mouth shut. Glad to leave the temple, and Delphine’s angry glares, behind.

* * *

The journey to Dawnstar passes quickly. Lumen is content to sit atop Shadowmere and brood, while Cicero tells Arnbjorn and Luka all about the events at Sky Haven Temple. He does embellish a bit, but he gets all the facts straight at least.

The welcome warmth of home is not enough to soothe her frayed nerves. Her brothers head to the common area to greet the family they haven’t seen in well over a week. Lumen watches as Cicero lifts his shirt and shows off his newly acquired scar with pride, and if she weren’t so lost in her own anger she’d laugh at how Babette and Eola fawn over him. As entertaining as it is to watch, her attention is pulled from the commotion when she feels the Night Mother’s tell-tale warmth wrapping around her shoulders.

Lumen grabs a quill and a piece of parchment from a nearby table and sits in front of the Night Mother’s shrine. The hissing, ethereal voice fills her ears, lifting her soul, and easing the seething anger Delphine had left her with. Her hands seems to move on its own volition when Mother whispers the names of doomed individuals in her ear, but the writing is her own, unique script. A descending stroke ends in a perfect hairline, a serif is added to a letter she’s yet to write, but she knows where is ought to be all the same. Every letter reeks of a perfection that was beaten into her at a young age.

She blows the ink dry, her eyes briefly scanning the page. There is a substantial list of clients and vague descriptions of where to meet them. She would like to help her brothers and sisters tackle such a long list. Nothing made her feel as good as spilling a little blood in the Night Mother’s name, but she has other responsibilities to take care of before she returns to her life as an assassin. Gods, she can’t wait for that wonderful day. 

Her descent into the common area is hardly noticed by the others. They are all too busy laughing at Cicero who has just discovered how to make his scar dance. All except for Arnbjorn and Nazir. The former retreated to his bedroom as soon as they stepped into the Sanctuary, and the latter is sitting at the head of the dining table with his nose stuck in a book.

“Hello, Nazir,” she says. “I have a gift.” She waves the paper in front of his face to get his attention, smiling when he finally snatches it from her hand. 

“Pest,” he murmurs with a grin. But it fades when he looks at the list. “Oh, no.”

“What is it?” she asks, completely baffled by his strange reaction. “Someone you know?”

“Sort of,” he sighs, placing the parchment on the table. “Astrid never filled you in on our relationship with Maven Black-Briar, did she?”

“Astrid wasn’t too fond of sharing,” is all Lumen can say. Anything else would be too disrespectful to their long-dead leader-- as if fucking her husband isn’t disrespectful enough. “Want to fill me in?”

“Have a seat,” Nazir says, motioning to a nearby chair. “When Astrid was running the Brotherhood, and when we had no Listener, we had to rely on agents to deliver news of potential contracts. We found a lot of these agents through the Thieves Guild, and some we found ourselves.”

“I recall her mentioning the use of agents once,” Lumen says. “What happened to them?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, shaking his head. “News of what happened at Falkreath traveled fast, and I think many of the agents were afraid of being hunted down by the Penitus Oculatus. I tried to contact them, but I had no luck. Which is a shame. I thought I’d at least be able to find Juniper. She always did good work, and I wouldn’t mind having her back in the fold, but…”

Nazir’s voice trails off, and Lumen would rather not think of all that they lost due to Astrid’s betrayal. “Tell me about Maven,” she says, hoping to steer the subject back to business.

“Maven Black-Briar is a well known name in Skyrim. She hired us a couple times. Sometimes to kill, sometimes to threaten.”

“Really?” Lumen can’t help but sneer. “Astrid sent Dark Brotherhood assassins to threaten people?”

“We weren’t doing so well, and Maven paid us very well for our threats.”

“It’s degrading,” she growls, upset that the Dark Brotherhood was sent to do such menial tasks, and now she has to deal with this Maven person, who probably thinks of the Brotherhood as her own personal attack dogs. Well, she’s got another thing coming.

“Be that as it may, the Dark Brotherhood has a long history with Maven. I thought we would be rid of the woman since we no longer have use of Astrid’s agents. But it seems as if she finally broke down and performed the Sacrament,” Nazir says. “She must be desperate.”

“I like desperate,” Lumen says. “Desperate people are willing to part with more coin for our services.”

Nazir offers her a small smile, but it fades as he looks over the list once again. “I am happy to set up the contracts for you, Listener, but I won’t deal with Maven. Someone else will need to speak to her on my behalf.”

“All right,” she says, albeit confused. “May I ask why?”

“That woman has no sense of propriety,” Nazir grumbles. “That’s why.”

“I need _details_ ,” she demands, grinning at how embarrassed the stoic Redguard looks. “Don't hold out on me!”

“You know, you should be the one to talk to her,” he says, completely ignoring her demands. “It wouldn’t hurt to inform her that the Dark Brotherhood has changed leadership.”

 _“Oh, goodie. One more thing for me to do.”_ Lumen grimaces at her bitter thoughts. “Fine, where can I find her?”

“You can find her in Riften.”

“All right,” she sighs. “I’m heading to Windhelm in a day or two. Riften isn’t too far south. I suppose I can go speak with her.” As much as she doesn’t want to deal with a past client of Astrid’s, she is glad to be doing some work for the Brotherhood again. Maven did the Sacrament, and it must be answered with death. If the woman asks Lumen to threaten someone, then the death will be Maven’s. _Her_ Brotherhood kills people, they do not deal in petty threats.

“I should probably tell Arnbjorn and Cicero about this. I think the both of them are going to accompany me to Windhelm.”

“Good luck, Listener,” Nazir says, flipping back to the marked page in his book. “I’ll set up the rest of these contracts tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Nazir,” she says, deciding to take a well deserved bath before she informs her brothers about their little detour. As comfortable as her leathers are, the thought of staying in them for another moment is nearly unbearable. She glances around the large room, wondering where Cicero has gone. It’s not like him to leave an audience behind, but she knows he’s exhausted after days of travel, and has probably wandered off to their bedroom to rest.

* * *

Lumen heads to her bedroom after bidding Nazir a good night. She could almost weep at the sight of the fire blazing in the hearth, her soft bed, and her bathtub, which is filled with steaming, hot water.

“Oh, there you are!” Cicero peers around the privacy screen that shields her bathtub from the door, his freshly washed hair clinging to his pale skin. “Sweet Cicero has drawn you a bath.”

“I see that,” she says, shutting the door and stepping over to him, loosening the belts of her armor as she walks. “Did you enjoy yours?”

“Oh, yes,” he sighs, moving out from behind the screen, and entirely nude except for a towel wrapped around his hips. “I do enjoy traveling with you, but a life on the road is so barbaric. Cicero needs his creature comforts.”

“I know what you mean.” She drops her hands to her sides when Cicero begins to unfasten her armor, his hands moving quicker than hers ever could. Piece by piece, he helps her shed her confining leathers. “Um, by the way, we’re going to Riften after we talk to Ulfric,” she says, as she unfastens the clasps of her breast band. “There’s a contract I need to set up.”

“Really?” he says, a little distracted by the sight of her bared before him. “Cicero thought Nazir typically did such things.”

“He usually does,” Lumen says, sighing when she eases into the hot, scented bathwater. “But he refuses to deal with this woman.”

“So what do we know of this woman?” Cicero sits on the edge of the bathtub, unabashedly staring down at her. Though there isn’t much he can see between the bubbles and steam. “She must truly be a terror if Nazir will not speak to her.”

“All I know is that she and Astrid had dealings in the past,” she says, unable to hide her annoyance, and knowing she doesn’t have to around Cicero. “Can you believe Astrid actually sent the Dark Brotherhood to make _threats_ on this woman’s behalf? Threats! That’s a job for a common thug, not an assassin!”

“Shameful, but necessary at the time. The Dark Brotherhood seemed to be doing quite pitifully before we arrived,” he says, completely rational.

Lumen grunts, annoyed that he is not sharing in her anger. She lathers up a washcloth, only to have it plucked from her hands. “I can wash myself, you know.”

“I know,” he says, his voice oddly even. He is quiet as he cleans the dirt from her face, careful to avoid getting the soap near her eyes and then moving on to her neck and shoulders. “I want to do this. You took care of me when I was injured.”

“I mainly hovered and worried,” she admits, the fear of that horrible moment coming rushing back. She’ll never forget the sight of him falling into blood-covered snow. “I-- I was--” the words stick in her throat, but they need to be said. “I was terrified I was going to lose you.”

As hot as the water is, a chill washes over her at her admission. It is made even worse when Cicero goes silent and still, his keen eyes boring into hers for seconds that feel like hours. The yawning expanse of silence is made worse by her frantic thoughts running wild. _“Oh, no. I’ve said too much. Why is he staring at me like that? I overstepped, didn’t I? Gods. You idiot, girl. Stupid, stupid--”_

The gentle touch of his warm hand against her cheek brings her frenzied thoughts to a hault. He takes a breath, his voice shaking when he finally speaks. “No one has ever valued Cicero’s life as much as you do,” he says quietly. “Not even Cicero himself.”

“Oh, well-- you know--” she waves her hand, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “I’d be a shitty Listener if I didn’t care.”

“You would be a pragmatic Listener if you didn’t care. Assassins are expendable,” he says, leaning close to her. “And _you_ , my dear Listener, are playing favorites.”

“You’re not expendable,” she says, her mood serious despite his teasing. “And I’m allowed to play favorites.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. It’s the sixth tenet. A _secret_ tenet that only the Listener knows,” she says lightly, hoping her jest isn’t verging too close to complete heresy. “It says the Listener is allowed to favor the Keeper above all others, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

He smiles again, breathing a silent laugh that ghosts across her bare shoulders. She’s never seen him like this before-- so genuinely happy that it makes her heart ache. He looks years younger. And for a moment it’s as if the Sanctuaries never fell, as if he hadn’t spent a decade alone, as if he’d never been mistreated by time and loyalty.

Lumen is so lost in that beautiful smile, she is actually startled when he moves in to kiss her. His smiling lips meet hers, which are warm and wet from the bathwater. He kisses her like his life depends on it; rough and needy, and so unbearably honest. But he pulls away too quickly, and his open expression betrays a hint of nervousness she rarely sees in him. Rather than question him, she returns to the task of bathing while he steps away to dress.

While she doesn’t question him, she _does_ watch him. He flits around the room wearing a simple pair of trousers, his freshly washed hair still damp, and contrasting nicely with his milky white skin. A light peppering of freckles adorns his shoulders and arms, and she would love to see how many more he would sport if he spent a lazy summer in the Cyrodiil sun. _“We could do that,”_ she muses to herself. _“We’ll take a vacation when all this is over. Just me and him.”_ She smiles at her quixotic thoughts, knowing she could never get Cicero to leave the Night Mother for more than a week at a time, and it would take them at least two weeks to travel to southern Cyrodiil. Ah, well. It made for a nice fantasy at least.

She steps out of her warm bath, and Cicero is back at her side, wrapping towel around her shoulders. “What are you smiling about?” he asks. “Naughty things, I hope.”

“I’m thinking of happier times that have yet to happen,” she admits, and her good mood vanishes when the reality of her sorry situation comes rushing back. She yearns for that quiet moment that happened only a few minutes ago, when she was lost in the curve of Cicero’s smile and the warmth of his eyes. “I am ready for this Dragonborn crap to be over.”

“Cicero doubts your responsibilities to the world will end after you’ve vanquished Alduin,” he says. “You seem to be favored by the gods above and below.”

“Favored.” She drops the damp towel to the floor, and dresses in a satin shift Cicero laid out for her. “It feels more like a curse. I wonder if the Dragonborns of the past ever felt this way.”

He unabashedly watches her nude for vanish beneath the cool, creamy fabric. “Of course they did,” he says. “The world used them up, just as it will try to use you.”

“That’s a comforting thought.”

“You would not believe me if I told you otherwise. I could tell you everything is going to be okay, that the world and the needy people in it will leave you alone once you’ve killed Alduin, but you are too smart to believe such drivel.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t believe it,” she says. _“But there is little the world can ask of a dead woman,”_ she thinks bitterly. It’s true that she sent Alduin fleeing back to Sovngarde, but now she is expected to face him in his territory, and she is not certain what will happen. A blessing from the gods doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll succeed.

“Cicero has been thinking,” he says slowly, still piecing his thoughts into words. “While it is true the Stormcloak jarl will be more likely to help you than the General, you should be cautious when dealing with him.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she says, sitting on the bed and motioning for him to join her. “I wonder if he’ll see me as some kind of weapon and try to pull me into his stupid war.”

“That is a possibility,” he says, sitting down beside her. “Delphine’s fear for you was not misplaced. He could attempt to kill you, or worse. I do not know what kind of man he is, but I do know nothing inspires a man’s anger like a blessing not bestowed upon himself. Ulfric can use the _Thu’um_ , and I have no doubt that he believes he should be the Dragonborn. Or he at least wishes to be. He will not be happy to see that Akatosh has chosen an elf. He will see you as a threat before he ever sees you as an ally, and if he is a weak man, he will be blinded by jealousy and never see you at all.”

“Hopefully he’ll be able to see past my ears,” she grumbles. “I’m not going to dock them for his sake.” Lumen winces at the thought, even though what she said had been in jest.

“Cicero did not realize ear-docking was a thing.”

“It is among some humans,” she tells him, rather surprised he hadn’t heard of it before. But for all his shortcomings, and his tendency to use gendered insults (especially where Astrid was concerned) Cicero paid surprisingly little attention to race. “When I first came to Skyrim, I met a Dunmer at an inn. Her ears-- they were flattened and scarred on top, like someone had cut the tip off and then cauterised it to kill all hope of healing.”

He winces. “Do not tell Cicero you actually asked the poor woman about her disfigurement.”

“I didn’t have to. She saw me staring and waved me over to her table. We shared a few drinks and she warned me against visiting Windhelm--”

“Which is exactly where we are going!”

“I’ve been there before,” Lumen shrugs. “I just don’t go to the Grey Quarter, especially at night. I’d rather not have a run-in with some hateful human who’s drunk on liquor and fear.”

Cicero groans, passing a hand over his face. “From here on out, Cicero is blaming every grey hair and every wrinkle on _you_.”

“I’m not the one who nearly got eviscerated by a dragon,” she says, her eyes drifting across his bare torso to focus on the scar Alduin left behind. “Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be with you and Arnbjorn. I will be safe.”

“But--”

“Stop,” she says, pressing a finger to his lips. “If someone even threatens to dock my ears I’ll burn them to a crisp, and if the poor sod is still alive after that, you can stab them to death.”

“Very well,” he concedes with a sulk. “Cicero will attempt to keep his worries to himself since his Listener has no desire to hear them.”

“You worry too much.” Lumen grins and scoots a bit closer to him. “Perhaps I could give you something more pleasant to think about for a while.” She presses a soft kiss to his bare shoulder, while her fingers drag across his torso, and come to a stop at the hem of his trousers. “What do you say?”

“What do you have in mind?” he asks, his sour mood lifting.

“I could tell you,” she says, nipping at his neck. “But I’d much rather _show_ you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend reading “Season Unending” by Heiwako. (https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9790637/1/Season-Unending) If you’re down with an Elenwen x Ulfric ship (and thus, burning in Shipping Hell like I am) you’ll enjoy it. We’re getting to the point in Causa Mortis where it ties in with her fic. She’s already written the Season Unending quest from Ulfric’s POV. So it’ll be fun to write it in Lumen’s. 
> 
> Also, the character Juniper is from a fic titled “Night’s Shadow” by bakasukebe here on Ao3. (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3952597/chapters/8862223) It’s an AU based around this story, and it focuses on the adventures of Juniper, who is the leader of the Thieves Guild. It’s an interesting story and I highly recommend it if you like Thieves Guild/Dark Brotherhood stuff. :D
> 
> The Season Unending part of this story officially starts in the next chapter. I promise. I was going to have Lumen meet Ulfric in this one but I got long-winded on the fluffy bit, so I just decided to end it there. I'd rather dedicate an entire chapter to her dealing with Ulfric and Maven, anyway. As always, thank you for reading!


	35. Windhelm

The gates of Windhelm open with the squeaky groan of metal upon metal, and a very nervous Dragonborn steps into the city. There is a layer of fresh snow on the ground, but she is warm thanks to the enchantments Luka placed on her armor. A few curious citizens look their way, even though they have no clue who she is. Not yet, anyway. That particular thought terrifies her. She doesn’t want to be known. She doesn’t want her face to be in everyone’s mind, and for her name to be on their lips. But such is the fate of the savior of the world.

Lumen is flanked by Arnbjorn and Cicero. Arnbjorn is dressed like a proper Nord in his blessed Savior’s Hide, and then there is Cicero, who was forcibly shoved into some armor Arnbjorn crafted for him. Luka had opted to stay home on this particular trip, claiming that if he never returned to Windhelm, it would be too soon.

“Cicero does not understand why he had to give up his motley for this excursion,” the Keeper grumbles. “Surely his head would be much warmer if he could wear his hat!”

“For the hundredth time, the armor is to keep you safe. It’s not a punishment,” Lumen snaps. Perhaps she is being a bit paranoid when it comes to Cicero's safety, but the man cannot traipse around Skyrim in nothing but an old, velvet motley. It’s too dangerous. Especially since the dragons seem to be targeting them ever since their fight with Alduin.

“It is not fair,” he whines. “Cicero looks so boring.”

“You do not,” Lumen sighs, but despite her exasperation, she turns to smile at him. “That leather armor makes your butt look great, by the way.”

“Ah, and here Cicero thought Arnbjorn only paid special attention to the shape of your posterior when crafting armor,” he says, chancing a glance at her rear. “Perchance he pays special attention to Cicero’s shapely derriere as well?”

“Don’t make it out to be more than it is,” Arnbjorn grouses. “It’s just the cut of the armor, nothing more.”

“Ah, yes. It’s just a coincidence, of course,” Cicero laughs. “Which is why you always seem to walk behind our sweet Lumen with your eyes on her bum.”

“You do the same thing.”

“True! But Cicero is not in denial of his perversion.”

“It’s _admiration_ , not perversion.”

Lumen whirls around. “Would you two please shut up and behave?” she snaps. “We’re nearly at the palace!”

“Sorry, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says with a smile, not in the least bit contrite. “But he started it.”

“Cicero was merely stating the facts,” he snips. “He does not deserve to be yelled at for being honest.”

Lumen heaves a sigh and marches ahead of them. Thier constant fighting is annoying enough, but the rare moments when they actually get along are even worse. Mainly because _she_ is the focus of their teasing.

When the two Windhelm guards catch sight of a surly Bosmer heading toward the Palace of the Kings, they cross their spears in front of the doors. “State your business, elf,” a guard demands.

“The Dragonborn requests an audience with Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” she says, her voice firm, and exuding a confidence she does not truly feel. But where the Forsworn guards laughed at her, the Windhelm guards regard her in complete silence.

The guard on the left steps forward. “Which one of you is claiming to be the Dragonborn?”

“I am,” she says, not missing the way the guard’s hopeful eyes flick to Arnbjorn. “And it is no claim, it is a fact. I am the Dragonborn, and I have urgent business to discuss with the jarl.”

“The jarl is a busy man,” the guard says. “But I will see if he has time for you, _elf_.” He nods to his companion before stepping into the palace. The guard on the right moves to stand in front of the doors. His face is completely shielded from view by a thick helmet, revealing nothing about the man but his deep, brown eyes. He watches Lumen and her companions, as if he thinks they may try something stupid, like kicking down the palace doors. Which Lumen would certainly like to do, but she has to behave herself since she’s striving for diplomacy.

The minutes pass slowly, and Lumen allows herself a quiet moment to think. She’s bothered by how calm Madanach was when she told him about the peace conference, and the very real possibility that he may lose Markarth to a few words, rather than a battle. Then there’s Delphine, who turned her back on her when she refused to kill Paarthurnax. But really, what did the woman expect? And furthermore, who does she think she is, ordering the Dragonborn around like that?

Despite her anger, there is a sadness in losing whatever semblance of friendship there had been between them. Delphine aided her as much as she could early on when Lumen absorbed her first dragon soul. She held her hair as the newly discovered Dragonborn made herself ill when she tried to drink the memory of that day away. The Breton had even been kind and sympathetic when she gave Lumen the capture orders they found on the body of a dead Thalmor agent. It’s difficult to accept that she would turn her back on her over something so trivial.

Lumen’s brooding is interrupted when the doors to the palace are opened by plump man dressed in typical Nordic finery. “Come inside travelers,” he says, waving them inside. “My name is Jorleif, and I am the jarl’s steward. He has agreed to see you. But you are expected to disarm first. With the war going on-- well, one can't be too careful, right?”

“We understand, of course.” Lumen quirks a smile, wondering if General Tullius is as paranoid as Ulfric. “Where shall we place our weapons? We don’t travel light.”

The man seems surprised by her quick acquiescence, but he quickly recovers. “Over here,” he says, leading them to an empty weapon rack off to the side of the main hall. “Normally it’s like pulling teeth to get your warrior types to part with your swords.”

“I am not exactly comfortable with it, but I do understand the concern,” Lumen admits, as she begins the rather tedious process of disarming. She places Dragonbane on the rack, followed by her twin daedric daggers, the two smaller ones she has hidden in her boots, and finally the thin stilettos hidden in her gauntlets. Cicero is just as well armed, having hidden daggers in his boots, gloves, and even within the vest of his armor. Arnbjorn shakes his head at the sheer amount of weapons the two carry as he leans his battle axe against the wall. Lumen would like to tell him that it’s unfair for him to judge considering he can grow teeth and claws if he gets into a pickle, but she bites her tongue for now.

“Is that everything?” Jorleif asks, his eyes darting back and forth between the weapons and their owners.

“Yes,” she lies. “That’s everything.” Everything he can see, anyway. Assassins are never truly disarmed. Arnbjorn has his supernatural strength and lycanthropy. Cicero has a speed and strength most would not think he possessed, and Lumen has her _Thu’um_ , as well as a few razor sharp hairpins holding her hair in a loose bun. Not that she thinks she will need a weapon, but she is on edge. Everyone has made Ulfric out to be some kind of monster. If he’s brash enough to kill the High King and start a civil war, then he probably wouldn’t think twice about killing the elven Dragonborn.

“Ah, very good,” he stutters, giving the loaded weapons rack a nervous glance before leading the three assassins closer to an empty throne. “Jarl Ulfric will be just a moment. He’s in a meeting, but he plans to speak with you as soon as he can.” The man bows, and leaves the three alone in the large room.

“Cicero is going to sit in the fancy chair.”

Lumen grabs him when he steps forward. “No you are not!” she hisses. “I told you to behave!”

“Cicero cannot help it! His butt is being inexplicably drawn to it,” he says as he tries to pull away from her. “Like a moth to a flame!”

“You’re not going anywhere!” She turns to Arnbjorn for help, but the Nord is standing with his arms crossed and his eyes forward, deliberately ignoring the two squabbling assassins. When it’s clear he is not interesting in helping, Lumen wraps her hand around Cicero’s belt, holding him tight.

“Cicero never gets to have any fun!”

“Yes you do!”

Arnbjorn only breaks his silence to shush them when two Nords enter the room. One is a grizzled, old warrior in a bearskin hood, and the other, younger warrior is dressed in steel armor and a fur cloak. He carries himself with a savage nobility that only the lords of the north seem to have. But as strong and battle worn as Ulfric may be, she does not miss the way his eyes flick to her ears, then to the far corners of the room, as if he’s expecting some unseen enemy to swoop down upon them. There is an anxiety in his expression that sets her teeth on edge; a deep-seeded fear that others may not see if they don’t know what to look for. Nothing is more dangerous than a man who is afraid of the shadows themselves, and on instinct, she bows her head, doing to best to look as non-threatening as a Bosmer in daedric armor can possibly look.

The older man looks to Arnbjorn, clearly hoping the Nord is the Dragonborn and that the entire elven Dragonborn rumor had been just that. But Ulfric meets her gaze with a quiet resignation in his eyes, as if he is used to being repeatedly shit on by the gods.

Lumen isn’t sure which is more offensive.

“Jarl Ulfric,” she says, uncertain if she is supposed to speak first, but all the silent staring is getting a bit awkward. “I have a message from the Greybeards.”

“In a moment,” he says, his deep voice resonating across the cavernous hall. “What is your name?”

“It’s Lumen, sir.”

“My steward tells me you claim to be the Dragonborn.”

“I _am_ the Dragonborn,” she says tersely.

“Bah, I don’t believe it,” the older man snarls. “The Dragonborn cannot be an elf. At best this is a joke, and at worst it is a trick of the Thalmor. She could be one of theirs for all we know!”

“Galmar,” Ulfric warns, his voice the very essence of forced calm. “The gods choose whom they choose. Who are we to question them? If Akatosh has seen fit to bestow his blessing upon an elf, then we must accept it.”

“I won’t accept it without proof,” Galmar says, folding his arms across his large, barrel-shaped chest. “Shout for us, little elf. Prove that you are what you claim to be, or get out and stop wasting our time.”

“Not the fire Shout,” Arnbjorn says quickly, knowing all too well which Shout Lumen tends to favor. “We’re not here to make enemies.”

“Cicero thinks it might be too late for that.”

“I know not to use the fire Shout indoors,” Lumen snaps, then looks to Ulfric. “Do you really want me to Shout in your palace? I don’t mind. It’s not like I’ll have to clean up the mess, but…”

Ulfric’s lips curl into a shadow of a smile. “You’re stalling.”

Lumen grits her teeth, sorely tempted to Shout them both down, but opting for caution. **_“Fus!”_**

The two men stumble backwards, Ulfric regaining his balance easier than Galmar. “If you are truly the Dragonborn, you can do better than tha--”

**_“Fus Ro Dah!”_ **

The Shout sends them both tumbling to the floor, and brings every guard in the palace rushing into the room, their swords drawn and pointed right at Lumen.

“Stand down,” Ulfric says, a soft laugh escaping him as he helps Galmar up off the floor. “ _Stand down_ , I said. It’s fine!”

“Satisfied?” she asks, casting a wary eye at the guards. Their swords are lowered, but they are all reluctant to leave their jarl behind. “I could show you a few more, but I’d recommend going outside for the rest of the demonstration.”

“No need, Dragonborn,” Ulfric says. “Your _Thu’um_ is strong. You are who you say you are. Of that, I am certain. Now, what is this message from the Greybeards?”

“Um...” she stammers, suddenly feeling small in the shadow of the two, large Nords who are now giving her their full attention. She adjusts the pack hanging from her shoulder, heavy with the weight of potions, rations, and the dossier. “I was hoping we could speak privately, Jarl Ulfric.”

“Privately?” Galmar scoffs. “Don’t waste his time, Dragonborn. Jarl Ulfric's time is precious. He has a war to plan, you know.”

“Everyone’s time is precious considering Alduin has returned,” she snaps, her limited patience finally at an end. “And now he’s in Sovngarde getting fat on all the souls that are being sent there as a result of this fucking war!” Lumen clamps her mouth shut, a delayed reaction to be sure. The two Nords do not look happy with her, and Galmar is the first to voice his displeasure.

“You best mind your tongue, _elf_ ,” Galmar growls. “Dragonborn or not, raise your voice again and you will find yourself in the dungeon.”

“I will spare a few minutes for you, Dragonborn,” Ulfric says, still looking unhappy. “But not a moment longer.” With that, he turns away, ignoring the angry mutterings of his housecarl and leading Lumen to a small room off to the side of the main throne room.

She casts a worried glance at her companions before hurrying after Ulfric. Arnbjorn seems content to study the tapestries, while Cicero stares after her, beside himself with worry. There is no point in apologizing for her harsh tone. Ulfric would see right through a false apology, and she has no desire to make them. Instead, she pulls the dossier from her pack and tosses it on the table in the small, war room. It lands on the table with a loud thump, drawing Ulfric's attention.

“What’s in it?” he asks. “I’ve no time to read it through.”

“You might want to,” she says, trying to keep her tone polite. “It’s a dossier-- _your_ dossier, to be exact. I stole it from the Thalmor Embassy a few months back.”

“Why were you at the Thalmor Embassy?” he asks, a hint of something like anger, but more like fear, edging into his voice.

“Many reasons,” she says, wondering just how honest she should be. “I was scouting for information regarding the resurgence of the dragons, but I didn’t find anything. I did kill a handful of Thalmor, though. So it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

Ulfric reaches for the dossier, his hand hovering above it in hesitation before he picks it up and flips through it. Moments of silence pass them by as his eyes scan the pages, but he suddenly snaps it shut and drops it on the table as if it burns him. “Why give this to me?” he demands. “Is this supposed to be a threat? Because if it is, it's not a very good one.”

The anger in his voice is startling, but Lumen tries to remain calm. “No,” she admits. “I honestly thought you would want it.”

“Why would I want this?” he says, more to himself than to her. He reaches out to caress the worn leather cover of the dossier, before remembering that he’s being watched, and pulling his hand back.

“I brought the dossier as a show of good faith,” she says, carefully watching him. His behavior is a little odd, to say the least. “To show you that I can be trusted. I am no Imperial spy, and I am not working for the Aldmeri Dominion. I came to Skyrim hoping to get away from the Thalmor.”

“What is this about the World Eater’s return?” he asks, seemingly eager to steer the conversation away from the Thalmor and back to dragons. Clearly, dragons are a more comfortable subject.

“Oh, right, that kinda coincides with the message from the Greybeards,” Lumen stammers. “The Greybeards have agreed to hold a peace conference to negotiate a truce until the dragon problem has been dealt with.”

“Has General Tullis agreed to attend this conference?”

“I haven’t spoken to him,” Lumen says. “I came to you first.”

“I have the greatest respect for the Greybeards, and the dragon attacks are a growing concern. I cannot tell you how many men I’ve seen come back wounded or dead, not from a battle, but because of a dragon,” he says, carefully measuring his next words. “But the political situation is delicate. Not all the Jarls are fully committed to supporting me as High King. I can't afford to appear weak. I can't agree to this unless Tullius himself will be there.”

Lumen bites her cheek hard enough to break the skin, but it is all that is keeping her from unleashing a torrent of insults at Ulfric. She knows a verbal onslaught will get her nowhere with the stubborn man. He seems to care more about how the other jarls perceive him than the fate of the world, so he would remain unaffected by whatever filthy names she might call him. Worse yet, is that she may very well lose control of her _Thu’um_ if she does choose to speak. So she opts to remain silent, while glaring daggers at the giant Nord in front of her.

“I am not being unreasonable, Dragonborn,” he says, annoyed by her anger.

“That’s a matter of opinion, my jarl,” she says stiffly. There’s no sense in arguing with a man who cannot see beyond his petty war. But she’ll be damned if she just accepts his bullshit without argument. She just hopes General Tullius will be more reasonable. “I’ll return once I convince Tullius to agree.”

* * *

The great hall is profoundly silent after Lumen and Ulfric leave the room. Galmar turns his attention toward the doorway, keeping an ever-watchful eye on his charge. While Cicero, normally excitable and loud, has gone deathly still as he guards his own. Arnbjorn is grateful for their silent vigilance. The lack of talking grants him the opportunity to eavesdrop of Lumen’s conversation, although it is difficult to make out their words over the ambient racket of the palace. He can hear the prisoners pacing in their cells, and the cook chopping vegetables, but he cannot make out a single word she says. The clipped tone of her voice tells him she is not impressed with Ulfric, but he doubted she would be. He is a typical Nord. Stubborn and proud, and not likely to make her life any easier than Tullius will.

The Listener is seething with rage when she steps out of the small room. Ulfric doesn’t look smug about setting her off, although Arnbjorn expected him to. His expression is perfectly schooled, which only makes him all the more curious about what the man is hiding. Does her anger worry him as much as it worries Arnbjorn? Or is he simply hiding his amusement for appearances sake?

“Let’s go,” Lumen says as she walks past them, and toward the loaded weapons rack to collect their things.

Arnbjorn obediently follows to collect his battle axe, only to be forced to wait while his two siblings take their sweet time arming themselves. Across the large hall, Ulfric and his housecarl engage in a quiet conversation. Ulfric speaks too softly for Arnbjorn to hear, but Galmar has no qualms about voicing his dislike of the elven Dragonborn.

“Are we going to the inn?” he asks, hoping to fill the air with noise, lest Lumen’s keen ears pick up the insults issuing forth from Galmar.

“No.”

Riften, then. The Listener is in the mood for a contract, and he doesn’t blame her one bit. At least she is focused enough to mold her anger into something useful. Once armed, the three assassins leave the palace behind. Lumen walks swiftly and with purpose, skirting around citizens who are walking too slowly, or are too wrapped up in their own thoughts to notice a murderous Bosmer walking their way.

It is only when they step outside the city gates does she bother to stop and speak. “Someone else needs to deal with the stablemaster,” she says. “I-- can’t.”

“Cicero shall do it, sweetness,” the Keeper chirps. “I am far more personable than Arnbjorn, anyway. Perhaps I can manage to get a discount.”

Cicero skips off toward the stables, leaving Arnbjorn to mind a keyed up Lumen. Great. “Come on, tidbit. Tell me what happened.” He places his hand on her back and urges her to walk closer to the stables, but not too close. The Altmer who tends to the horses is overly friendly, and tends to greet passersby. He just hopes he’s not feeling too sociable today.

“Ulfric is a shit,” Lumen snarls. “He refuses to even agree to the peace conference unless Tullius does first. So I have to waste _my time_ running back-and-forth from Windhelm to Solitude because he's afraid of looking weak!”

“I’m not surprised,” he admits, moving his hand from her back to the nape of her neck, hoping to offer some modicum of comfort. He is rewarded by the elf leaning into his touch, which means her anger is ebbing. “Look at the bright side. You’re getting to see all the sights that Skyrim has to offer.”

Lumen shoots him a fierce glare. “How is that the ‘bright side’? This country is covered in snow and colder than a hagraven’s tit. There’s nothing worth seeing.”

“At least the weather in Riften will be fair,” he says, smiling in the face of her irritation.

“There is that,” she concedes, and then turns her attention to Cicero, who is approaching them with Shadowmere. Her eyes flick to the Altmer stablemaster in the distance, before quickly looking away. Arnbjorn would like to applaud her for controlling herself, but the day is still young, and he’d rather not jinx their good luck just yet.

They head to Riften with Cicero and Lumen riding atop Shadowmere, and Arnbjorn walking along beside them. As the day wears on, so does Lumen’s overall patience with _everything_. Having the fate of the world resting on her shoulders is a big enough task, but Windhelm’s general attitude toward elves set the Bosmer on edge, as did her meeting with Ulfric. The Altmer at the stables only served to provoke her, leaving her to quietly seethe. It’s almost funny how worried Cicero looks. Arnbjorn cannot blame him, though. The poor man is stuck riding a horse with a surly, fire-breathing elf. Her face is pinched in a frown, and Cicero’s is drawn with anxiety.

The weather grows warmer as they near Riften, and the moons are high overhead when they finally turn on the little path that will lead them to the stables. Lumen tugs on Shadowmere’s reins, stopping the horse from proceeding any farther.

“What is it, tidbit?”

“I want you and Cicero to stable Shadowmere and go to the inn,” she commands. “I’ll talk to Maven and meet you there when I am done.”

“But, Listener--”

Lumen sighs as she dismounts Shadowmere, which isn’t an easy task with Cicero seated behind her. “Please don’t argue,” she says, straining to keep her voice calm. “I just really want to be alone for a little while. I need to think, and I can’t do that with you humming in my ear.”

“But--” he stammers, looking utterly dejected. “Cicero thought you liked his humming.”

“I do,” she says, checking her weapons. “But it’s a little distracting sometimes.”

“Wait, wait!” Cicero scrambles off the horse. “You need Cicero to protect you! You cannot go alone! There are bandits and thieves, and all manner of vile things lurking in these woods!”

“I think I can arrange a simple contract all by myself,” she snaps, but her voice softens as she tries to make amends to Cicero without actually having to apologize. “Look, I’ll be fine. Just go to the inn and order me a drink. I’ll be there soon. I promise.”

“At least take Arnbjorn with you!” Cicero presses.

“The Listener’s orders are clear,” Arnbjorn says, laying a hand on Cicero’s shoulder to keep him from chasing after Lumen. “Go on, tidbit. We’ll see you later.”

“Thanks,” she says softly, then casts a guilt-ridden look at Cicero before vanishing into the shadows of the forest.

Arnbjorn looks down at Cicero, whose bottom lip is stuck out in a fierce pout. “Oh, cheer up,” he says, disturbed by the jester’s morose behavior. “Come on, let’s go the inn. I’ll even buy you a drink.”

“Really?” he asks, a glimmer of his usual cheer edging back into his voice.

“Yeah, really.”

“Will you allow poor Cicero to finally tell you the horker joke?”

“Only if you promise to stop sulking,” Arnbjorn says, wondering just what he’s gotten himself into.

* * *

Lumen’s heart is heavy with guilt when she leaves Cicero behind. She adores him. She really does. But sometimes a girl just needs a little time alone. Besides, she doubts Astrid had an entourage following her around when she dealt with Maven. Perhaps it’s a stupid, prideful thing, but Lumen needs to prove herself the more effective leader.

Not only that, but there are some secrets the Listener has chosen to keep to herself. One of them being that along with the ability to hear the Night Mother’s voice, she also seems to inherently know where the Black Sacrament has been performed. It starts as a tingle in the back of her mind, growing stronger and urging her onward the closer she gets to the location. So her journey through the forest of the Rift is not nearly as dangerous as Cicero seems to think. Sure, there are bandits and creatures lurking within, but they are no danger to her as long as she keeps to the shadows and moves quickly.

After walking for ages, she finds herself staring at a lodge. There are mercenaries walking the perimeter, and they are likely crawling all over the interior of the home as well. Luckily, Lumen has plenty of experience breaking and entering without being detected by city guards, and giving these mercenaries the slip should be a piece of cake. Despite her confidence, she is not foolish enough to let her guard down. She would do this carefully and with precision. There is no room for error, not when her ego is on the line.

She moves across the yard; her footsteps muffled by her enchanted boots, and her movement wrapped in shadows. The lock on the back door is simple enough, and within a matter of seconds, the tumblers are falling into place and giving her access to the sprawling lodge.

Lumen closes her eyes, seeking, _sensing_ the effigy of death that so calls to her. Something from below is tugging at the edges of her consciousness, urging her downward. Finding the way to the lodge’s basement is easy enough, and thankfully unguarded. The hired thugs guarding the property seem content to wander the grounds and raid the kitchens, rather than do what they were ostensibly hired to do. But Lumen is thankful for their lackluster performance. It makes getting to Maven that much easier.

The basement is pitch black except for a sliver of golden light glowing from beneath a door. On the other side of which, is Maven. Lumen can hear the tell-tale thump of a knife being driven into wood, and the frantic mutters of someone who has done the sacrament for longer than they would like.

She pulls the door open to find a Nord woman kneeling on the floor, her dress filthy and her hair disheveled. “You can stop,” she says, smirking at the confusion on the woman’s face. “The Night Mother has heard your prayer.”

“Well, it’s about time!” the woman snaps. She tosses the dagger down and stands up, dusting off her skirt before running her fingers through her hair. “Is this how I am expected to call you people? It’s utterly barbaric!”

Lumen does not immediately respond to her. She simply smiles as she pulls the door closed, and perches on the edge of a small dining table on the far side of the room. Maven doesn't seem bothered by her silence, she just takes it as an opportunity to fix her hair before primly sitting in a chair at the table.

“I suppose introductions are in order--”

“I don’t care who you are,” Maven says. “You will take the job and take your payment, and you can tell your superior that I do not appreciate being made to wait, nor do I approve of these odd methods of contacting you.”

“Get used to it,” Lumen says, her voice clipped in annoyance. “Because the Sacrament is how all patrons must contact us. I don’t know what sort of arrangement you had with Astrid, but it died with her.”

There’s no flicker of emotion that passes over her face. If she is saddened by Astrid’s passing, she does not let it show. Instead, she sighs, as if her death is nothing more than a small inconvenience. “Are you in charge of the Dark Brotherhood now?” she asks, completely businesslike. “I don’t see why we can’t arrange something similar.”

“Something similar,” Lumen says with some amusement. “Like sending the Brotherhood to threaten those who slight you?”

“Occasionally, when the situation requires a threat rather than a death.”

“No.”

Maven regards her with the cool annoyance of one who is used to getting what they want. She leans back in her chair and gives Lumen a withering glare. “I see. Then, I suppose we are done here, assassin.”

“Oh, we are far from done,” Lumen says, moving closer to Maven and looming over her. “You have performed the Sacrament, and Sithis is due a soul.”

“That seems a little extreme, don’t you think?” Maven huffs and folds her arms. “I can’t do business with dead people, but I _can_ do business with people who are terrified they are going to die if they slight me. Instilling terror is something the Dark Brotherhood does very well.” She pauses, her gaze lingering on Lumen for a few quiet seconds. “Well, that’s something the Brotherhood _used_ to do very well.”

Lumen smirks at the flimsy insult. “I don’t think you understand, Maven. It is not the words of the Sacrament that call us, it is _desire_. If you did not desire a death, then your prayer would’ve never reached the Night Mother, and therefore it would have never been whispered to me. So give me a name. Give me a target, and I will be on my way.”

“And what happens if I refuse?” she asks. “You have to understand, I’m a businesswoman and I am reluctant to sever any business relationships just yet.”

“The Sacrament is sacred,” Lumen tells her. “I am honorbound to kill _you_ if you do not provide me with a target. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” she says, curling her lip. “I do not take threats lightly, assassin.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s a promise, and one I would rather not make good on.” Maven’s face betrays no emotion, but Lumen can sense her waning resolve. It’s always a beautiful thing when people finally realize the control they believe they have is purely illusory.

“I need a moment to think,” Maven says, thoughtfully tapping her chin. “I admit, there are many people who I would like to be rid of. The trouble is deciding who is more useful to me dead rather than alive.”

“How about the person you wanted us to threaten?” Lumen asks, then slides off the edge of the table to sit in the chair across from Maven. Relaxing now that her dominance has been asserted, and she is closer to getting what she wants.

“No,” Maven scoffs. “I need them afraid, not dead.”

“You could have someone close to them killed.”

“Goodness no,” she sneers. “The grieving are useless.”

“And very susceptible to suggestion,” Lumen says. “Easy to manipulate.”

Maven considers her suggestion. “This seems a bit heavy handed, but you have a point. Unfortunately, Belethor doesn’t have any friends, and I highly doubt the man is capable of grief.”

“Belethor,” Lumen grins. “In Whiterun? You were wanting to send us after him?”

“He owes me money,” Maven says, scowling at the mere thought of him. “He would prefer that everyone think of him as a self-made man, but he would never have started his little business if I hadn’t fronted the money. He was making regular payments, but has since stopped.”

“Don’t you have hired thugs you could send to rough him up and trash his shop?”

“I do, but I thought sending an assassin would show how serious I am. Unfortunately, you threw a wrench into that little plan. So I have to think of another way to deal with him, and another way to deal with you.”

“It’s not my fault you misused the Sacrament,” Lumen says, smirking at the woman’s irritation. “Just hurry up and give me a name. It’s not exactly thrilling to sit here counting your wrinkles.”

“You don’t have to be rude, girl,” Maven snaps, more offended by Lumen’s poor manners than her threats of death. “As is so happens, I do have someone in mind.”

“Finally!”

Maven’s scowl only deepens at Lumen’s obvious relief. “Belethor has an employee named Sigurd. Kill him inside the shop, and make it messy. He’ll be out of business for days trying to clean it up, and that’s assuming the guards don’t haul him to the dungeons on suspicion of murder.”

Lumen grins, suddenly feeling a swell of fondness for the woman sitting across from her. “How messy? A simple evisceration? Drawn and quartered with his head placed upon Belethor’s pillow while the man is still asleep?”

“I don’t need to know the details,” she says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Just get it done.”

“Right,” Lumen murmurs. “So we kill Sigurd to send a message, I like it. But there’s just one problem.”

Maven rubs her temples to ward off a headache. “What is it?”

“Sigurd isn’t your first choice. He isn’t the person who was in the forefront of your mind when you were performing the Sacrament. He’s more of a consolation prize. So, who do you _really_ want to kill?”

“My fool of a son, Sibbi,” Maven sighs. “But he is _my son_. I brought him into this world, and I will take him out of it if I have to. So don’t you dare lay a finger on him.”

Lumen holds her hands up, hoping to placate the woman. “I have my orders. Sigurd will die, and Sibbi will be left to your mercy. You have my word.”

“Are we done?” Maven asks coolly. “I have work to do, and I’ve wasted days on this Black Sacrament business.”

“Almost. There’s still the matter of my fee to be discussed.”

“We can discuss your fee over a glass of port.” She stands and motions for Lumen to follow her. “Let’s go upstairs, I’ve been down in this dingy basement for too long.”

* * *

It is late when Lumen steps into the Bee and the Barb, with a smile on her face and a purse of gold hanging heavy at her hip. As late as it is, the inn is still very crowded and full of rowdy patrons. Not that she is surprised. Riften is a city that never sleeps.

She finds Cicero and Arnbjorn seated at a table in a dark corner. There are empty tankards, and small shot glasses strewn across the tabletop. They both look blissfully tipsy, and she isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But they both seem to be enjoying each other’s company, and they haven’t been kicked out of the inn… yet.

Cicero’s face lights up when he sees her, and he nearly falls out of his seat when she yells, “Sweet Lumen! You came back for your poor Cicero!”

She winces at the volume of his voice. “Of course I came back,” she says, dragging an empty chair over to their table and sitting down. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

“What’s a poor fool to think when he is left behind?” he whines, loudly scooting his chair closer to her so she can rest his head on her shoulder.

“He was perfectly well behaved until you showed up,” Arnbjorn says, frowning at Cicero’s theatrics. “So how did it go with Maven?”

“It went,” she says with a shrug. “We have our payment and our target, and she knows we’re not her personal attack dogs any longer. She took the news well, all things considered.”

“I assume her choices were to either deal with it or to die?”

“Pretty much.” Lumen glances around the inn to make sure no one is within earshot. “She wanted us to shakedown some merchant in Whiterun, but we’re going to kill his employee instead.”

“I suppose that will get her message across to the merchant, at least.”

“Only if we get blood all over his merchandise,” Lumen says, wrapping her arm around Cicero’s shoulder when he presses closer to her. “What’s with Maven and Nazir? Do you know why he refused to speak with her?”

“Don’t even ask,” he says, fighting a smile. “He’ll kill me if I tell you.”

“Oh, come on! I won’t say anything, I promise!”

“Look, I don’t even know the whole story,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. “A few months before you joined up, we sent Nazir to deal with Maven. When he came back he said he would never deal with her again. When we asked why, he said she got handsy with him. But he refused to give us any details.”

“Oh, gods,” Lumen breaths a laugh. “She tried to seduce him!”

“Something like that,” he says, and then turns his gaze Cicero. “The fool is drooling on you, by the way.”

“What?” She looks down to see Cicero still leaning against her and sleeping peacefully, with a steady dribble of drool running from the corner of his mouth and onto her leather armor. He would be mortified if he knew, so she grabs a handkerchief and wipes his mouth clean. “How much did you let him drink?”

“He’s a grown man, and _he_ made the decision to do shots.” He grins at the scene in front of him, but it fades as quickly as it came. “He was a mess when you decided to run off on your own. I don’t know how he’s going to fare when you head to Sovngarde.”

“Poorly,” Lumen whispers. Rather than think about being worlds away from her family, or how poorly Cicero will do when that time comes, she says, “Help me put him to bed. I can’t carry him up those stairs by myself.”

Arnbjorn stands and stretches away the stiff ache from being still for too long. He slips one arm around Cicero’s shoulders, and the other behind his knees to pick him up, much to the amusement of the other patrons in the inn. The Keeper groans a bit at being jostled, but he doesn’t wake up.

“I’ve got bad news,” Arnbjorn says, grunting a little as he carries Cicero up the stairs. “Well, it’s bad news for _me_. The inn is full, as you can see, and they only had one room.”

“Uh oh. Guess we’re all spooning tonight, huh?” Lumen grins at him when they step into the rented room.

He places Cicero on the bed, who murmurs something about wanting a goodnight kiss before he falls back to sleep. “I’ll take the floor. You two can take the bed.”

“That’s very gentlemanly of you,” Lumen says, stuffing a pillow behind Cicero’s back to keep him rolled on his side in case he happens to become ill from all the alcohol he imbibed. She removes his boots and belt so he can sleep comfortably. Although, he will be anything but comfortable when he wakes up with a raging hangover in the morning.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m such a kind-hearted soul,” Arnbjorn says, laughing at himself. “Just do me a favor and don’t let him puke on me.”

Lumen watches Arnbjorn lay his bedroll out on the floor as she sheds her armor. A smile appears on her lips despite her best efforts to fight it. Part of her wishes she’d spent the evening with her brothers instead of Maven, but she is happy to see them both getting along instead of bickering all the time.

She walks over to him, placing her hand on his arm and halting his efforts at stripping the heavier pieces of his armor before laying down. “Thanks. Um-- you know. For keeping him company. He doesn’t do so well on his own.”

He smiles softly, before pulling her into his arms and kissing her on the cheek. “He’s not so bad,” he murmurs, letting her go before she can respond, and returning to the task at hand.

Lumen places her hand against her cheek, the skin still tingling from the gentle scratch of his beard. She crawls in bed, snuggling up behind Cicero and throwing her arms around him. The sounds of the inn filter up into their small room; chairs being moved across the floor, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. But rather than listen to the sounds of revelry, she tries to focus on the gentle cadence of Cicero’s breath, and the beating of his heart beneath her palm.

The sound of footsteps growing closer grabs her attention, and when she looks up to see Arnbjorn placing an empty chamberpot near the bed. “Seriously, I don’t want him puking on me,” he says, before moving back to his bedroll. “I can handle a lot of things, but puke isn’t one of them.”

“Well I don’t want him to barf on me, either!” she says, amused that big, strong Arnbjorn is squicked by something so harmless.

“Cicero is not going to vomit on anyone!” The Keeper complains, annoyance clear in his slurred words. “So be quiet, and _please_ make the room stop spinning!”

“Sorry,” she says, holding back a laugh. It’s going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! It was difficult to write considering all the dialogue and lore-checking. I expect the next few chapters will be just as difficult, but I look forward to the challenge. Despite my minor struggles, I really did have fun working on this one. I enjoyed writing Ulfric, and especially cranky, old Galmar. But I think the scene between Lumen and Maven was my favorite. (Poor Sigurd, though!) Also, I realize that the Black-Briar relationships are inconsistent in the game. In some places Ingun and Sibbi are referred to as Maven's children, and sometimes her grandchildren. I'm just going to consider them her children since that seems to be most widely accepted.
> 
> A few have asked me if Lumen is going to get involved in the Civil War. She’s not going to be more involved than she is now, and she’s only in the middle of it at the moment to further her own agenda. I think it’s obvious that she would root for whoever is likely to give her a Thalmor- free Skyrim, and she’ll gladly wipe out at many as she can in the meantime. But she doesn’t care for politics. Regimes rise and fall, but the Dark Brotherhood is forever. ;)


	36. Solitude

Lumen wakes after a night of fitful sleep. Her dreams were of dragons and death-- her own death, to be exact. She is not a woman who dwells on dreams, but when the images seen during sleep coincide with her own fears, it is hard not to constantly replay the scenes in her head. It is a stupid kind of self-torture, she knows that. The things she sees in dreams rarely make sense, and never come true. But in Skyrim, death by dragon is a very real threat. Facing Alduin in Sovngarde may very well result in her own death, and it is a fear she lives with every day. She’d appreciate it if her unconscious mind could at least give her a little reprieve.

Cicero is already awake and looking paler than usual. “Cicero thinks he might be dying,” he groans pathetically.

“You're hungover,” Arnbjorn says, thoroughly amused. “We’ll stop by the alchemist before we leave and get you something to help with that. Drink some water in the meantime.”

“That involves moving,” he complains. “Cicero does not want to move.”

Lumen stretches and yawns. It would be so easy to go back to sleep if her mind wasn’t determined to flit from one thought to another. Her body is tired and her muscles are sore, and her eyelids are so heavy. But with Cicero and Arnbjorn already awake, there’s no way she’d get enough peace to even grab five more minutes of sleep.

“I’ll go to the alchemist,” Lumen volunteers, carefully crawling over Cicero and out of the bed. “You stay here and rest a little more. I’ve been in your shoes more times than I’d like to admit.”

“Oh, you are too kind, sweet Lumen,” he says, pulling the blankets over his head. “Thank you, dear.”

“Bah, you pamper him,” Arnbjorn says, the smirk on his lips easing any jealousy she may have sensed in his words. “He’ll feel better if he gets up.”

“Take Arnbjorn with you so Cicero may have some peace,” comes his muffled voice.

“Will do.” Lumen smiles to herself as she puts her armor on. It is unusual for Cicero to wake in such a foul mood. But then again, it’s unusual for him to drink so heavily. He very rarely imbibes, and when he does, he never has very much. Others may not see it, but everything Cicero does reeks of self-control. Even his outbursts are controlled. So for him to drink to the point of intoxication is very strange, and she wonders if it’s truly because she left him behind, or something else.

Arnbjorn and Lumen weave through the crowded inn. The Bee and the Barb is full of patrons who have come in for breakfast, or a morning drink before work. The market outside is just as busy; the merchants are preparing their displays for the day, while a few beggars take their places around the outer wall, hoping for charity. Even the orphanage is a lively place, which is a stark contrast to Lumen’s first visit to Riften. Constance and a priest of Mara stand outside and watch the children play in the morning sun. Lumen’s eyes scan the small crowd, searching for one child in particular.

There he is. Standing away from the others with his eyes trained on his feet is Aventus. He’s grown since she last saw him, and he looks well fed and clean. He doesn’t look happy, though, and she supposes there’s no reason for him to be. Grelod may be gone, but he’s still living in the place where he was subjected to her torments. Sithis only knows what the boy went through to gather all the necessary items for the Black Sacrament. Even she doesn’t know how long he performed it, but it must’ve been weeks.

“Thinking of taking a stray home?” Arnbjorn murmurs in her ear, causing her to jump. “You never struck me as the maternal type.”

“I’m not,” she says quickly. “That boy over there by the rocks. That’s Aventus. You know, the kid who was trying to summon the Brotherhood. The one I found.”

“Ah, right. The stolen contract.” Arnbjorn smirks at her resulting scowl. “Leave him be, tidbit. He’s a client, not your friend.”

“I _know_ that. I’m just-- glad he’s okay.” She shrugs, then turns to walk down the stairs to the lower half of the city. “He was nothing but skin and bones last I saw him. Hey, speaking of that. Why didn’t the Brotherhood take his contract?”

“Astrid had some concerns with taking a contract from a child,” he explains. “Her main concern was money. There’s no way the kid could adequately pay an assassin for their time.”

“He paid me with a plate,” she says, laughing at the memory. “But I suppose it was worth it. Stealing that contract was the best decision I ever made.”

“And convincing Astrid not to kill you for it was the best decision _I_ ever made,” he says with a grin.

“What?” Lumen stops, turning to face him. “She was really going to kill me?”

“She thought about it. But I was able to convince her to give you a test. We were in need of new recruits, and you had more than proven yourself by taking the initiative.”

“I figured you were the one who wanted me dead,” she admits. “You were so rude to me.”

“I don’t like people,” he says, reaching out to take her chin between his thumb and forefinger, coaxing her to look him in the eyes. “Obviously, I warmed up to you.”

“Eventually,” she grins, swatting his hand away. “But you’re still rude.”

“I spent my evening keeping Cicero company after you ran off, and you’re accusing me of being rude?” His smile fades, as does the good humor in his voice. “He was really upset, tidbit.”

“Oh, come on. I was only gone for a few hours and it’s not as if we’re attached at the hip.” Lumen folds her arms across her chest, frowning up at Arnbjorn. “And I don’t need you telling me off for it.”

“You’re starting to push him away, and don’t you dare tell me otherwise,” he snaps, taking a step toward her and trapping her against the cobblestone wall. “I _know_ what it looks like. Astrid did it to me.”

“I am not...” her voice falters, and she wishes she could think up a valid excuse for her behavior, but he would see right through it. “Although it would be easier for him in the long run if I did.”

“Why?” The word is closer to a growl than actual speech, and Lumen flinches as the ferocity in his tone.

“Because,” she gasps. “If I die--”

“If you die,” he interrupts. “He’ll be heartbroken. Possibly more heartbroken than he would be if you died and he still believed you loved him. Which you do. I’m sure of it. You’re just being a damned fool about it. You’re lucky enough to have someone who worships the ground you walk on, and--”

“It’s just because I’m the Listener,” she asserts, not knowing why she has this stupid need to fight back, only that her pride demands it.

“No, it’s not,” he says, his voice is firm. Somehow, his calm manner of speech is worse than it would be if he were actually shouting. It makes every word more real and meaningful, and impossible for Lumen to ignore. “Alduin might kill you, but he might not. Either way, you need to talk to Cicero about it and stop pushing him away. Tell him what you're so afraid of, and if you can’t do it for him, then do it for me. Because I can’t handle another night of babysitting a drunk, whiny jester.”

“Was he really that upset?” she asks, staring down at her feet.

“Yeah, tidbit, he was,” Arnbjorn says softly, gently tucking her hair behind her ears. “And I understand why. You’re a real pain in the ass to love.” At that, he steps away from her and continues walking down the wooden path to the alchemist’s shop, leaving her to her confusion.

Lumen gapes at his retreating form. Unable to believe her own ears, and feeling utterly blindsided. Did he just tell her he loves her? It came out as more of an insult than anything else but-- well, how else would she expect Arnbjorn say it? Damn him to the Void and back! She’s got enough to worry about with Cicero, she doesn’t need him complicating matters any more than they already are! She shakes her head, hoping to realign her dizzying thoughts into something more coherent.

“Hey!” she shouts, finally willing her feet to move so she can catch up with him. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Telling you what?” he asks, smirking. “You’ll have to be more clear.”

“About Cicero,” she mutters, refusing to acknowledge what he said earlier.

“He’s not so bad once you get to know him,” he admits with a shrug. “You’ll talk to him, right?”

“Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Good. Now get a move on. We need to get going if we hope to reach Solitude by nightfall.”

* * *

_“I shouldn’t have said that,”_ Arnbjorn muses to himself. _“Or I should have said it in a different way, perhaps.”_ A way that didn’t expose his own confusing feelings. He doesn’t know if he loves her. Maybe he does, but it’s not the way Cicero does, and it’s not the way he loved Astrid. It would be easy to call it the love between a brother and a sister, but most siblings don’t do the things he and Lumen do. Sometimes he really hates how incestuous the Dark Brotherhood’s terminology can be.

Regardless of what he should or shouldn’t have said, watching a very flustered Lumen deal with a chatty Ingun Black-Briar is worth it. As is walking behind her as they head back to the Bee and Barb. She lifts her feet a little higher, and there is an extra sway to her hips despite the stiff set of her shoulders. It’s a posture he’s seen her take on very often, and he’s come to call it her ‘angry walk’. It’s _hilarious_. But laughing at her at this juncture would surely earn him a kick to the shin, so he keeps quiet for now.

Cicero is still buried in a pile of blankets when they enter their room, and Arnbjorn opts to hang back and watch Lumen try to wrestle him out of the bed. He fully expects her to lose her temper with the little man, but the Listener surprises him with how tenderly she rouses him.

“Cicero,” she says softly, pulling the covers back and brushing hair away from his sweaty face. “I have something to help with that hangover, but you need to sit up.”

The Keeper murmurs something incoherent, but he manages to push himself up into a sitting position. “Gods, why did Cicero do this to himself?” he whines, holding his head in his hands, as if that will keep the room from spinning. Lumen grabs one of his hands and shoves the potion into it, urging him to drink before the spinning gets worse. To Arnbjorn’s mild surprise, Cicero actually does what he’s told. The Imperial is apparently too hungover to be contrary for the sake of it.

After the span of a few breaths Cicero sighs in relief. “Better?” Lumen asks.

“Much better. Thank you, sweet Lumen,” he sighs, reaching for her and pulling her close when she offers no resistance. She kisses him when she’s close enough, eliciting a startled, but pleased, squeak from Cicero.

Arnbjorn has to look away.

It is strange to be jealous of their intimacy when they’re both sleeping with her. But emotions are never logical, and this white hot burning in his chest is as confusing as it is uncomfortable. He has her friendship, and she occasionally warms his bed when it suits her whim. So what more could he possibly need from her? He wonders if his jealousy has something to do with the beast blood, if it’s some stupid, dog-like need to mark his territory. But Lumen isn’t his. She doesn’t even belong to Cicero. Not truly. She doesn’t belong to _anyone_ ; she is her own.

A quick, mental calculation of the lunar cycle grants him some understanding of his strange mood. The full moons are rapidly approaching, and they only serve to amplify his need to shift. To claim. To conquer. His jealousy is not entirely a result of the moons, but it is surely made worse by the approaching lunar call. He would have to be very careful until that time comes.

“Arnbjorn?” Lumen voice pulls him out of his reverie, and he is pleasantly surprised to see both the Listener and Keeper packed, armed and armored, and ready to go. Trying to get those two ready to go anywhere on time is like trying to herd three-legged goats across a frozen pond.

“You’re ready?” he asks, not bothering to conceal his shock. “How’s the hangover? Cured?”

“It is not cured by any stretch of the imagination,” Cicero says. “But it is manageable. Cicero will be able to travel, at least.”

“Good.” He turns to Lumen and asks, “So? Are we headed to Solitude or shall we go home first?”

“Solitude,” she sighs. “I just want to get this over with. We’ll head home for a few days once our business in Solitude is concluded. I need to give Maven’s contract to someone. Luka, maybe. I think he’d have fun with it.”

“All right,” he nods, turning away from both Lumen and Cicero, and hoping his uncertainty doesn’t show in his voice. Just a few more days and then he can hunt. He hopes he can last that long.

* * *

“I hope General Tullius will be less of a prick than Ulfric was,” Lumen mutters as she steps into the Winking Skeever. It’s well past nightfall, and Castle Dour will be closed up for the night. She’ll have to try to arrange a meeting with the general in the morning.

“He’s an Imperial, tidbit. He’ll be worse.”

Cicero holds his head a little higher, determined to ignore Arnbjorn’s jibe. “In the morning we need to go by the clothier and find you something more appropriate to wear.”

“What are you talking about? I’m meeting with a _general_ , surely my armor is appropriate enough.” Lumen takes a seat at a table, while Arnbjorn speaks to the innkeeper about rooms and food.

Cicero sits down beside her. “Yes, one might assume that. But while being armed to the teeth will impress these Nords, Imperials go by a set of different standards.”

“And what standards are those?”

“Well, for one, wearing a nice dress that shows off your _assets_ will likely make you appear less threatening to Tullius. Therefore, he might be more agreeable.”

“Right,” Lumen drawls. “So, all Imperials are horny idiots who will agree to anything as long as I show enough cleavage? Got it. This should be easy.”

He runs his hand over his face, not bothering to mask his annoyance. “You are dealing with a different culture. While the Nords value the strength of one’s body and spirit, Imperials value cleverness, and--” he pauses, furrowing his brow at his next admission. “Showing off your figure certainly won’t harm your chances. If the good general is like the other soldiers Cicero has known, he is likely a follower of Dibella.”

“Wait-- what?” Lumen leans closer to him, suddenly very interested. “Other soldiers you have _known_? Were you a prostitute before you became an assassin?”

Cicero laughs at that. “I suppose I chose my words poorly,” he admits. “No, sweet Lumen. I did not sell myself at any point. Before I found a home with the Brotherhood, I survived by stealing. Drunk Legion soldiers were easy targets, and they usually had an amulet of Dibella stashed on their person.”

“So? Dibella is a Divine. How is it notable to have an amulet honoring her?”

“Ah, so you do not _know_ , then…”

“What are you talking about?”

“In Cyrodiil, flashing an amulet of Dibella is much like wearing an amulet of Mara is here. Only, instead of telling people you are seeking marriage, it tells them you are seeking _company_.”

“What kind of-- _oh_ , nevermind. I get it,” Lumen says, as Arnbjorn arrives at the table, followed by the innkeeper with a tray of food and drinks. He quietly takes a seat at the table, not wishing to interrupt the conversation at hand, as the innkeeper places the tray on the table and shuffles away. “Well, this is an interesting bit of information, but I don’t see how it helps me.”

“It means soldiers are typically very lonely,” Cicero says with an exasperated sigh. “And Tullius might appreciate having a conversation with a lovely lady, and thus, be more agreeable to the peace conference.”

“What if he likes men?”

“Then you are well and truly screwed, sweet Lumen,” Cicero says, pulling a bowl of stew and a tankard of mead toward him. “Or _not_ , as the case may be.”

She laughs despite herself. “You realize this will be a disaster, right?”

“Perhaps, but it will be interesting to witness.”

“Maybe you should have tried this tactic with Ulfric,” Arnbjorn says with a grin. “He seemed lonely.”

“He’s not lonely,” Lumen snorts. “He’s got that bear-man to keep him company. Besides, he acted kind of _strange_. I don’t know how to describe it. But it was almost like he was afraid of me, which is stupid. It’s not as if I would be able to take him in a fight.”

“You read his dossier, didn’t you?” Arnbjorn sets a bowl of stew in front of her. “He was a prisoner of the Thalmor for a long time, and there are plenty of Bosmer among their ranks. It makes sense that he would be wary of you.”

“Most Thalmor prisoners don’t get out alive, and if they do, they usually don’t have all their appendages intact,” Lumen explains, stirring her lukewarm stew. “They’re always physically marked in some way. The Thalmor like to leave their prisoners with a reminder of their time together.”

“He does have that scar on his face,” Cicero adds.

“It’s not that disfiguring,” Lumen murmurs, finally taking a bite of her stew. _“Someone kept him pretty,”_ she leaves unsaid. Even if they didn’t kill him because he was a jarl’s son, they still would have sent him back without a hand, or maybe even a foot. It’s possible they took something _else_ from him. He has no known heirs, after all. However, most of the scars Lumen can see are on his psyche. She can see it in his eyes when he looks at her. He’s damaged, sure. But he isn’t broken. Someone took a very special interest in him.

The conversation eventually fades as the three assassins tuck into their meals. Once finished, they retire to their respective rooms; Arnbjorn in one, and Lumen and Cicero sharing the other. They do not speak much as they get ready for bed, only murmuring the occasional thank you when helping each other out of their armor. The innkeeper provided them with a bowl of warm, scented water and some rags. It is not as refreshing as a long soak in a hot tub, but it does wash the grime of the road away.

Lumen’s mind is a whirlwind. She doesn’t know how to apologize for pushing Cicero away, because she hadn’t realized she was doing so until Arnbjorn pointed it out. “Cicero,” she says his name quietly. Meekly, even. He pauses in the midst of plucking his eyebrows, which is a considerable feat. “I’m-- uh, sorry about last night?” Her apology is more of a question, because even though Arnbjorn claims he was upset then, she doesn’t know how he feels now.

“Oh,” he says, shrugging before returning to the task at hand. “Do not worry, sweet Lumen. Cicero is used to your constant push-and-pull. It is much like being at the whim of the tides; being pulled in toward the shore, only to be tossed out again.”

Ah, yeah. He’s definitely pissed.

Lumen sits on the edge of the bed and watches him, not knowing what to say. She _never_ knows what to say, and that only adds to her mounting frustration. “Arnbjorn thinks I am pushing you away,” she finally tells him. “I would prefer not to make assumptions about what you think. So, if you could just--” she pauses, waving her hand in the air and grasping for the right words. “Just _talk_ to me.”

“ _Are_ you pushing Cicero away?” he asks, still focused on shaping his brows with little more than a candle and a dirty mirror to aid him. “You have been acting strange ever since we faced Alduin. Clingy one minute, and distant the next.”

“You’ve seen him,” she whispers, terrified to even speak the damn dragon’s name lest he overhear. “You’ve _fought_ him. Do you really think I stand a chance against him in Sovngarde? What if he kills me? What if I get stuck there and I can’t come home?”

Cicero finally abandons his task, setting the tweezers down and walking over to her. “You have to believe you will come back,” he says as he sits down beside her. “Cicero has faith in you. You will defeat him, and you will come back.”

“Belief and faith are concepts I’ve always struggled with,” she admits. “You seem to have faith in spades.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, his voice shifting to a dangerously low pitch, and his jester persona falling to the wayside in the wake of his anger. “Do you think my faith never wavered? If what happened in Bruma caused me to doubt, then the fall of Cheydinhal nearly destroyed my faith in the Dark Brotherhood.”

“But you stayed,” she says quietly, fighting to urge to back away from him. Seeing him like this always unnerves her. “You even brought Mother to Skyrim...”

“I stayed. But do you know how many times I almost left? _Dozens_ , at least. There were so many times I was at the door, ready to leave a silent Mother and an empty, dead Sanctuary behind.” He takes a deep breath. The fall of the Sanctuaries and the time he spent alone is almost a forbidden topic, and one he prefers not to speak of. “I never thought Astrid would write me back,” he says, breathing a soft laugh. “If she had not done so, then I would’ve never come to Skyrim. Mother would be entombed at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary and I would be… elsewhere. But I had to try. I had to have faith. I had to believe that someday Mother would find a new family, and Cicero would find the Listener.”

Lumen covers his hand with her own. “And Mother did find a new family, and you found me. Although, I am not sure if that last part is a punishment or a reward.”

“It depends on the day, sweet Lumen,” he says, grinning at her. “But Cicero believes you will come home, and he needs you to believe that too.”

“I’ll try.”

“And stop pushing Cicero away,” he says tersely, though his smile remains. “There is no reason for it.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back to look at him. “I suppose I can be a bit of an ass sometimes.”

“Yes, well, so can I,” he laughs.

“Cicero?”

“Yes, dear?” he asks, his grin turning into something more warm. “What is it?”

Lumen bites her lip, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to laugh when she says, “Your eyebrows are uneven…”

“Shit.”

* * *

Exactly how Lumen ends up in a private suite in one of Solitude’s most exclusive boutiques is still a mystery to her, but she’s content to lay blame on Cicero. After all, it was he who woke her up at the crack of dawn to go shopping. But she did not think she would be stripped down to her smalls and left to the mercy of two, maniacal Altmer seamstresses. The women are highly intimidating, and even her need to kill is quelled under the sheer magnitude of their scorn. They are completely and unapologetically _rude_ , and Lumen can’t help but respect them for that.

Taarie takes her measurements, while Endarie holds strips of fabric against her skin. “Are you certain you want something in green, dear? We have a wide variety of colors that would work just as well with your complexion.”

“I hear puce is supposed to be a slimming color,” Taarie says as she measure Lumen’s waist, tsking when she writes down the measurement. “That would be my suggestion.”

“I _like_ green,” Lumen grits out while glaring at Cicero. The Keeper is sitting in a chair with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, loving every moment of her torture. “So just find me something in green so we can be done with this.”

“Green is so last season,” Endarie says, resting her hands on her hips. “I am only trying to save you from embarrassing yourself.”

“My dear, sweet Lumen does look quite ravishing in green,” Cicero chimes in, opting to rescue her before she stabs the seamstress with a clothespin. “Perhaps you could find her something that is cinched in the waist to accentuate her luscious curves.”

“Ah, so you wish to amplify her heavy bosom and wide arse?” Taarie asks, annoyance thick in her voice. “Usually we try to hide such imperfections.”

“Curves are hardly considered imperfections,” he says politely, but Lumen can sense his irritation. It is one thing to drive Lumen insane with endless color samples and measurements, but it is another thing entirely to insult the Night Mother’s Listener right in front of the Keeper himself.

“Have Altmer beauty standards truly changed so much?” Lumen asks, earning a surprised glance from the sisters. An unfortunate side-effect of being raised by a Thalmor meant Lumen had to endure more than her fair share of parties, and she became well acquainted with the latest in Altmeri fashion as a result. The tall, skinny elves did everything they could to showcase whatever curves they had, most of which were earned after the trials of motherhood. As for Lumen, she’s always carried a little extra weight, especially compared to other elves. But Lumen never worried about it. Worrying about how other people perceived her body seemed like an exercise in futility. Besides, none of her lovers, past or present, ever complained.

“We tend not to style our clothes based on Altmeri fashion for the obvious reasons,” Endarie says, some of the scorn easing from her voice. “Our kind aren’t exactly favored among the Nords, and Altmer _anything_ is highly unpopular. So we’ve been selling the latest Breton fashions this season. They’re not as sophisticated as Altmeri designs, but they’re not hideous. They are, however, cut for a more lithe figure.”

Talk of the latest fashions is something that is decidedly well over Lumen’s head. If she finds a style she likes, she sticks with it, regardless of how outdated it might be. “Do you have anything in an Imperial cut?” she asks. “And in green?”

“Oh, fine. If you are so determined to be out of style, we won’t stop you,” Taarie sniffs, draping the measuring tape around her shoulders. “Go on, Endarie. I believe we have last season’s dresses stored in the back. Something from that collection will surely fit her.”

“If not, we can just take it out in the waist,” Endarie says, as she vanishes into the storage room. In a matter of seconds, she bustles back out with her arms full of dresses. Some look okay. Nothing too gaudy or busy. But there is one in particular that makes her stomach churn. It is a poofy, bright pink monstrosity with layer upon layer of ruffles and lace.

“I’ll save you some time by telling you to put the pink one back where you found it,” Lumen says, unable to hide her disgust at the hideous design. “That thing is grotesque.”

“Oh, sweetness. Won’t you try it on, at least?”

“No,” she snaps, and selects one of the dresses Endarie brought to show her. It is simple dress cut in an Imperial style with a low, swooping collar and a built-in corset that ties in the back. The emerald green material is paired with accents of white and dark green, with intricate stitching along the collar and the hem of the skirt. “This one will work.”

“That was quick,” Taarie says. “Well, try it on. We might need to make some alterations.”

“We can have it finished by tomorrow,” Endarie says as she helps Lumen into the dress.

“I need it today,” Lumen tells them. “We can pay extra.”

“Very well,” Taarie says as she looks Lumen over. “Hm, it appears to fit just fine, we’ll only need to take up the skirt. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Are you finished, then?” Cicero asks.

“I believe so,” she says distractedly, looking herself over in a full length mirror. It’s been ages since she’s worn anything so nice, and as loathe as she is to admit it, the Altmer sisters do good work. It might just be the one thing saving them from her blade.

“Good!” He hops up from his seat and practically skips over to the two seamstresses. “Now it’s Cicero’s turn!”

If the two women thought Cicero would be as fashion-dense as Lumen, they would be dead wrong. The little Imperial begins describing the outfit he’s looking for, and the seamstresses immediately launch into action. Both thrilled and annoyed to have a customer who knows exactly what he wants. Glad that she is no longer the center of attention, Lumen sits back and watches the chaos unfold.

* * *

Two hours later, Lumen and Cicero step out into the mid-morning sun. Lumen, in her brand new green dress, which she admittedly loves, and Cicero, in a pair of tight, leather breeches, and a silk tunic, paired with the most gaudy boots anyone in the history of Nirn has ever seen. The tops are just above his knees, and are adorned with gold filigree and glass jewels. He stands a little taller thanks to the two-inch ivory heels. They are greeted by Arnbjorn, who looks utterly dumbfounded.

“Tidbit, you look great.” He offers her a smile, before his gaze flits back to Cicero. “But why is he dressed like _that_?”

“Cicero is dressed in the latest fashion from High Rock!” The Keeper catches a glimpse of his reflection in the shop window, and stops for a moment to preen.

“You look ridiculous,” Arnbjorn grumbles.

“Oh, what do you Nords know?” He tosses his hair over his shoulder in a fit of feigned pique. “Cicero looks fantastic!”

Lumen is inclined to agree. Breton fashion may not work for her, but it looks amazing on Cicero. The cut of his breeches leaves very little to the imagination, and her eyes keep drifting to the gentle slope of his muscled thigh. It’s everything she can do to not drool all over herself, which would admittedly make for a very bad impression when she meets with the general.

Cicero catches her staring, and he spins on his heel to give her a better view of his outfit. “Does sweet Lumen like what she sees?”

“Gods, _yes_ ,” she breathes, before remembering she’s in public. “I-- I mean-- you look very, um, nice.”

Arnbjorn shakes his head and walks off toward Castle Dour, determined to increase the distance between Cicero and himself. The Keeper is unaffected, merely stating that he looks fantastic and Arnbjorn wouldn’t know style if it bit him in the arse. He loops his arm around Lumen’s and they make their way toward the looming, aptly named, castle. She is grateful for his close proximity, because she feels naked without her armor.

The sight of the legion soldiers performing drills invokes both a feeling of nostalgia and terror. The Imperial Legion and the Thalmor are closely linked. One Thalmor in particular is actively looking for her, and while she doubts the legion is aware of her wanted status, she cannot help but give in to a shiver of fear at the thought that Malrian could be near by. He could be closer to her than he’s been in years, ready to strike. The mere thought of seeing him again is more terrifying than Alduin will ever be. No one knows her like Malrian, and no one can make her feel as helpless as he does.

“It is an oddly familiar sight, isn’t it?” Cicero’s voice pulls her from her whirling thoughts. “Not exactly comforting,” he mutters, patting her hand. “But familiar.”

Arnbjorn furrows his brow when he senses her fear. “Steel yourself, tidbit,” he says quietly. “You don’t want the general to pick up on your fear.”

Lumen nods, and allows herself a moment to compose herself. The courtyard of the castle is a sea of brown, red, and gold. There isn’t a black robe in sight. _“I’ll be all right,”_ she tells herself. _“I can do this.”_ Although, the sight of the Emperor's tower does give her pause. It is never wise to return to the scene of a crime. But she has little to fear with the Emperor dead, and the Penitus Oculatus wiped out.

Once calm, she steps toward a soldier guarding a large, wooden door, with Imperial banners draped on either side. “Excuse me,” she says. “I’d like to speak with General Tullius.”

The soldier, an Imperial with sun-kissed skin and bright, blue eyes, glances up at her. “What’s this about? I’ll see if he has time for you,” she says, rather more politely than Lumen expects.

“Tell him the Dragonborn is here to speak with him,” she says. “Tell him I have a message from the Greybeards.”

The soldier giggles at her-- _giggles_! “Are you really the Dragonborn?” she asks, smiling widely before remembering herself and snapping back to attention. Her forced, stern-faced expression is softened by the corners of her mouth threatening to turn up at any moment. “I mean-- right! I’ll go see if General Tullius has time to meet with you, Dragonborn.” With that, the soldier vanishes into the tower.

“What’s so funny?” She glances at her companions when the soldier leaves. “Is there something on my face?”

“Maybe she is excited to meet you,” Cicero suggests. “That would be a first, considering how poorly you’ve been received thus far.”

“I suppose it’s better than being laughed at or threatened.”

The guard opens the door and waves Lumen inside. “General Tullius will see you now,” she says cheerfully. “Your companions may wait in the hallway if they like. It’s not the coziest place in the castle, but at least it’s warm.”

“Thank you,” Lumen says, grinning at the guard. Her cheer is infectious, and she hopes it has the same effect on Tullius. She could use all the help she can get at this point.

Cicero takes a seat on the bench in the hallway, crossing his legs with a flourish, and admiring his new boots. Arnbjorn leans against the wall, his silver eyes reflecting the torchlight. Something about his serious expression sets Lumen on edge, but she doesn’t have the time or the privacy to ask him what’s wrong. Perhaps it was simply an effect the castle has on him. The castle is oppressive on the inside. Dark, dusty and grim. She’s seen tombs that were decorated with more cheer.

The guard leads her to General Tullius’ office. Lumen’s blood turns to ice when she lays her eyes on those gathered within. The general is about as intimidating as any seasoned legionnaire, and the Nord standing beside him has certainly seen her fair share of battle, but they are not the cause of her fear. The cause is standing beside them, tall and imperious in her black Thalmor robes. If Elenwen didn’t recognize Lumen when she infiltrated her embassy, then she certainly does now. A slow, sadistic smile curls across her painted lips when she catches sight of Lumen. If Malrian’s sister is here, then he cannot be far.

Tullius does not seem to recognise her fear for what it is, and stands to greet her. “So, you’re the Dragonborn?” he asks, looking her over with polite interest.

“Y-yes,” she stammers, trying with all her might to focus on Tullius, and to pretend Elenwen just isn’t there. “I have a message from the Greybeards.”

“The Greybeards?” he scoffs. “What do those old hermits want with me?”

“They’re organizing a peace council at High Hrothgar,” she tells him. “We’re hoping for a truce until this dragon menace is dealt with.”

Tullius steps around his large desk and sits on the edge, facing Lumen. “Have a seat, Dragonborn,” he says, and while his tone is polite, it is clear that it is a _command_ and not a request. “Is that what you prefer to be called? Or do you have a name?”

“Uh, you may call me Lumen if you like, sir.” She takes a seat in a nearby chair as instructed, but she fidgets uncomfortably with her skirt, not liking the threatening air of the room.

“It’s odd for a Wood Elf to have an Imperial name,” he says. “Is that your birth name?”

Lumen tenses upon realizing he’s interrogating her. “Er, no. Why?”

“Usually people with criminal pasts change their names, so I am wondering if you have a past you are running from.”

“It’s what the human children used to call me when I was little. They had trouble pronouncing my birth name. Too _elfy_ , I guess. But I liked the name, so it stuck,” she says tersely, not wishing to discuss the short-lived, happier days of her childhood. “Can we get back to the peace council?”

“Of course,” he says. Behind him, the Nord woman looks on with interest, as does Elenwen, who shows all the hungry focus of a cat who’s finally trapped a mouse. “I realize the dragons are getting to be a problem. But I didn’t come here to sort them out. My job is to quell this rebellion, and I intend to do just that. Dragons, or no dragons.”

“General,” Elenwen purrs. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this peace council. It could be useful for our cause in the long run.”

“Forgive me, Ambassador,” he says, albeit begrudgingly. “Tell me more about this council. Has Ulfric Stormcloak agreed to this?”

“He has,” she says, which is a lie, but he’ll agree if she can sell this to Tullius. “I know he’s managed to gain the upper hand in this war, but I think he’s grown tired of bloodshed and is seeking peace.”

That makes General Tullius laugh. “Ulfric? Tired of bloodshed? He’s got you fooled if you truly believe that.” He folds his arms, leaning back slightly and looking her over again. “And the only reason he’s gained the upper hand is because the Emperor was assassinated. The gossips claim it was the work of the Dark Brotherhood, but I wouldn’t put it past Ulfric to send his own people to do his dirty work.”

“Ah,” Lumen rubs her shoulder, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his gaze. “So, will you come to the peace council, then? This is about the _dragons_ , and the safety of Skyrim’s citizens, not Ulfric.”

“Yes,” Elenwen cuts in. “We’ll come to your little council.”

If Tullius is annoyed by Elenwen answering for him, he doesn’t let it show. “I have another question, Lumen,” he says, his voice taking on a more stern tone. “Is it true that you can use the _Thu’um_?”

“Yes.” She glances over her shoulder, noting the guards standing just outside the door. “Um, do you require a demonstration? Ulfric wasn’t so quick to believe me, either.”

“No, I believe the entire city had a demonstration when you Shouted men off the bridge after making an attempt on the Emperor’s life,” he says, motioning for his guards. “Jail her. Prepare her for questioning. I have reason to believe the Dragonborn is Ulfric’s pet assassin.”

“W-what? I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Lumen shrieks, trying to pull away from the guards when they grab her arms. “I only just met Ulfric the other day!”

“Gag her, too. If she can use the _Thu’um_ as Ulfric can, we don’t want her using it on us,” Tullius orders, uninterested in her excuses.

“Wait! You’ve got the wrong--” A dry, cloth gag being shoved in her mouth drowns out her excuses. Tears blur her vision, because she knows what the Empire and the Thalmor mean by _questioning_. It’s torture by any means necessary to pull a confession out of the guilty, or the innocent who would rather face an execution than endure more pain. She knew she probably left witnesses behind on the day of the botched assassination, but at the time all she had cared about was getting home and saving her family.

The guards bind her hands behind her and drag her out into the hallway. There, Arnbjorn is holding Cicero back. The Keeper is furious, but if he lost it now, the guards would surely kill them both. As it is, they seem content to let them leave. _She_ is the one they want. As frightened as she is, she is comforted somewhat by the knowledge that her brothers will come to get her. They won’t just leave her to the mercy of the Empire _or_ the Thalmor. She just hopes she can endure whatever torments they have planned for her in the meantime.

* * *

After an unnecessarily thorough frisking, Lumen is tossed into a cell that is already occupied by another prisoner. The man looks at her through his stringy, filthy blond hair, but he doesn’t move or speak as long as the prison guards are nearby.

“There you go, _Dragonborn_ ,” the Imperial guard spits her title as if it’s a filthy word. “I hope you find your quarters to your liking. They aren’t going to get any better from here on out.”

“Hope you don’t mind sharing a cell,” the other guard says. “We’re full up with you treasonous, Stormcloak bastards.”

The rusty, iron door slams shut, and the guards laugh as they return to their posts. Lumen struggles to right herself with her hands tied behind her back, but she manages to sit up. She leans against the mossy, stone wall, mentally cursing at Astrid and her damn treachery that’s come back to haunt her. It looks as if Astrid’s plan might finally come to fruition, after all. Lumen might die here at the hands of the Imperials, and the Dark Brotherhood will be without the Night Mother's voice once again.

_“No,”_ she tells herself. _“That’s not going to happen. Arnbjorn and Cicero will come for me.”_

Movement from across the cell grabs her attention, and she looks up to see her cellmate staring at her, with wide, blue eyes. He stands on wobbly legs and shuffles toward her, limping from sitting too long, and from no visible wound. Lumen grunts and flinches, making it obvious that she will not tolerate his advances quietly if he intends to assault her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says as he kneels down in front of her. “I just want to remove your gag, all right?” He brushes his hair away from his face, and she recognizes him as the soldier who greeted them on their way home from Blackreach. He’d been marching with Ulfric and Galmar, leading the unit back to Windhelm from Dawnstar.

“Thanks,” Lumen gasps when he tugs the gag away, grateful to even receive one iota of kindness in this wretched place. “So what are you in for?”

The man shrugs. “It is not an interesting story. I’m just a Stormcloak soldier who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not the first time that’s happened,” he grumbles. “My name is Ralof, by the way, and you-- are you truly Dragonborn?”

“The one and only,” she sighs. “Sorry to disappoint.”

A bright smile breaks out on his face, his teeth a stark white against the grime on his skin. “Dragonborn,” he breathes, reverence thick in his voice. “Surely there is no cell in all of Tamriel that could hold you.”

“Eh, this one is holding me pretty well,” she says, stunned by his reaction. “If I were to Shout in here, I’d be more likely to bring the place down on our heads.”

“The Imperials cannot have you,” Ralof says, half-crazed with the prospect of impending freedom. “The Dominion cannot have you. We have to escape.”

“We will,” she assures him. “Just, wait. I know you’ve probably been waiting a long time. But I need you to wait a little longer.”

He nods and settles down beside her, desperate for friendly company. She is thankful Ralof seems content to obey her commands. It is surprising. Sometimes she forgets that the Dragonborn is a person of reverence to the Nords. Most scoff at her being an elf, and others just don’t seem to care one whit. Ralof hasn’t said a word about her race, he just stares at her like she’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. Which is admittedly a little awkward. But she’ll take adoration over contempt any day.

The day wears on with the two talking in sporadic bursts. But they are silent for the most part, neither wishing to draw the attention of the guards. It is evening by the time the jail door opens, and Lumen perks up at the sound of footsteps coming toward her cell. She is torn between foolish hope and dread. It could be Cicero come to rescue her, or it could be a guard sent to haul her off for interrogation.

She feels as if her heart may stop when Elenwen steps into view. Sithis and Talos, and all the gods in-between have surely abandoned her if that wretched bitch is meant to be her interrogator.

“I didn’t recognize you when you crashed my party at the embassy all those months ago,” Elenwen begins without prompting. “You’ve grown so much since I saw you last. I suppose you lesser elves do age quite a lot in the span of a mere decade.”

Lumen looks away, seeing no reason to respond.

“You were so young then,” Elenwen continues, her voice light and cheery. “But now look at you. All grown up and pretending to be some silly, Nordic legend. Malrian will be _so_ amused.”

Panic grips her, and judging by the way Elenwen laughs, she can undoubtedly sense the fear coming off of her in waves.

“It will be tedious trying to convince General Tullius to release you into Thalmor custody, but he will be made to see reason.” The First Emissary clasps her hands behind her back and begins to pace. “My brother will be so glad to see you. He’s missed you terribly,” she laughs, clearly enjoying every moment of this. “He’s had other pets since your departure, but they didn’t last very long. You were always so resilient.”

Lumen resists the urge to curl in on herself. He’s had other pets, but they didn’t _survive_ him. Gods. How have his sick, twisted tastes changed between then and now? And where is Cicero? He has to come for her! He has to rescue her! She can’t face Malrian on her own. She may be the Listener _and_ the Dragonborn, but around him she is nothing more than a scared, little girl. Just the sound of her name falling from his lips would beg her back to bend.

“Nothing?” Elenwen tilts her head. “No smart remarks? No threats? I admit, I’m a little disappointed by your lackluster response. But I suppose I’ll have to try harder when I have you at the embassy.”

“Fuck you,” Lumen manages to say, although her voice is shaky. “I’ll kill you before you get the chance to take me there.”

Elenwen grins widely at that. “Ah, there’s that defiance I was looking for. Good. I was hoping you would put up a fight, _little dove_.” Malrian’s old pet-name hits her like a kick to the gut, and Elenwen laughs at her resulting flinch. She says nothing as she turns on her heel and walks away, presumably to nag Tullius into submission.

Her companion says nothing about the conversation he’d just witnessed, and Lumen is grateful for his lack of interest. He only blows into his hands to warm them, muttering “Damn Thalmor,” to the cold, night air.

Lumen presses closer to Ralof, her only source of warmth in the cold, damp prison. She is too terrified to speak, lest Elenwen return. All she can do is hope and pray that Cicero comes for her soon.

Where _is_ he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doesn’t Ralof have the worst luck? And so much for Lumen’s pretty, new dress…
> 
> The next chapter might take me a little while to work on. I have a busy month ahead of me, so I don’t know how much time I will have for writing. But I’ll certainly try not to keep you all hanging for too long!


	37. A Question of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture and murder. Pretty average stuff for this fanfic...

_“Well, it could be worse...”_

It can _always_ be worse. That is a bitter truth she learned a long time ago. Things can always be worse than they actually are, and if she’s completely honest, being stuck in a cell with a young Stormcloak soldier is not the worst thing she’s ever had to endure. He is no rapist, nor is he some affection-starved fool looking to cuddle up to something warm and pretty. He shared his warmth when Lumen was cold, and did not complain when she eventually pushed him away.

She is grateful for his presence. For the way he fills the silence with idle chatter. Speaking of his family, and of his admiration for Ulfric Stormcloak. He even tells her a story of heartbreak. A common tale of his lady-love falling for the charms of another man while Ralof was off doing Ulfric’s bidding. He falls silent after that, only speaking again a half an hour later, telling her what it was like when he first heard the Greybeards call for her. The hope he felt, and the joy at there actually being a Dragonborn in the world again.

Lumen does not tell him how she felt on that particular day, She does not tell him how she got hopelessly drunk and found someone to spend the night with, hoping the Greybeards and the dragons had been nothing more than a silly dream. He wouldn’t appreciate that particular story as much as Cicero would. He would laugh to hear how Lumen decided to warm the bed of a lovely Dunmer mercenary, and ignore the fate the gods had cursed her with. Cicero would love the story. But the soldier, who exudes a boyish innocence, would not.

Cicero-- gods, she’s worried about him. Did he and Arnbjorn manage to escape? Were they arrested, or killed in the aftermath of her own arrest? She wants to believe they escaped. She wants to believe they are okay, because she would never forgive herself if something happened to them. It is all she can do to hold in her panic, to conserve her energy for whatever it is that may come next. Death, most likely. A slow, agonizing death at the hands of her master-- _former_ master.

In that moment she wonders, has she ever been truly free? Or had her master just slackened her leash, giving her the cruel illusion of freedom and happiness, only to reel her back in so he could show her the error of her ways?

“Let him try,” she growls, surprising herself with the ferocity of her words. Escaping the inevitable may very well be impossible. The Thalmor that fetch her will snap an unbreakable collar around her neck. She knows these collars well; made of the purest gold and inscribed with lightning runes that will be activated at Malrian's whim. She’ll be tethered to the guard with a leash, her hands bound, and her soul raging. Once, long ago, Malrian had the ability to control a frightened elven girl, but even he cannot bind her now.

And that’s it, isn’t it? That is the key to her _true_ freedom.

She has the blood of a dragon and the heart of a killer. She’s the Night Mother’s daughter and she is _Dovahkiin_ , and she’ll be damned if she falls into slavery once again. So let them come. Let the Thalmor come and chain her, and lead her to Malrian. She will bleed him dry, just like she’s done to countless Altmer before him. They were all nothing more than practice, leading up to the moment where she tears into him with a rage she’s been holding in for decades.

Within the rolling waves of her anger, worry washes ashore once again. _Where_ is Cicero? _Where_ is Arnbjorn? They will come for her if they are safe. But what if they aren’t? What if they need her to rescue them? She wishes Mother would say something. But she is too far away and the connection is too faint, and she doubts the Night Mother is all-knowing, anyway. She doubts any of the gods above, or the gods below, truly are.

The sounds of approaching footsteps pulls Lumen from her brooding. Two pairs of heavily armored feet accompanied by the softer tap of leather upon stone. Two guards and one justiciar. So typical. So efficient. So very Thalmor. Altmer do not change their routine, nor do they change the pre-established rules of their order. They do not come of age until fifty. A long childhood combined with ample amounts of brainwashing, mean Altmer very rarely challenge the natural order of things. Things are how they are, and they do not question it.

So she will give them nothing to question. She will become the willing slave, until it is safe to attack. She will be what they think she ought to be until the time is right.

Ralof hisses when they step into view, his body going stiff with fear and impotent rage. “Dragonborn, I will help you if I can. You need only give the command,” he says, ignoring the fact that he is weak and underfed. “You cannot let the Thalmor have you.”

“Be still,” she whispers. “I know what I’m doing.”

The justiciar clears his throat to get her attention. “Lulawen Ringtree,” he says, her birth name sounding foreign to her ears. “I am Justiciar Alerion, and I am here to return you to the custody of Justiciar Malrian. Please step toward the bars so that you may be prepared for transport.”

She rises slowly and walks to the bars as commanded, her arms out at her sides to show she is not hiding anything. Bile rises in her throat when she catches sight of the gold collar in the justiciar’s hands. _“Breathe,”_ she reminds herself. _“Just breathe. You’re going to escape… Uh, somehow.”_ Despite her faltering resolve, she steels herself and moves close to the bars. The justiciar reaches through the gaps and snaps the heavy collar around her neck. The runes glow slightly when they are activated, sending a wave of static across her skin. The wave is not a reaction of the collar locking, so much as it is a gentle warning of what will happen if she disobeys the justiciar’s commands.

“Remain still, prisoner. I am going to open the door so that we may bind your hands.” The tone of his voice is cordial. Bored, even. And why wouldn’t he be? At the end of the day, this is just another mission. Just another boring day of collecting a justiciar’s wayward property. “Kill the Nord if he moves,” he says to his guards.

Ralof stares at Lumen, his eyes full of questions. She had promised him an escape, because she had believed that Cicero would have come for her by now. _Someone_ should have come for her by now! The heavy weight of the collar around her neck is nothing next to the crushing, oppressive weight of hopelessness that nips at the edges of her consciousness. But her rebellious heart will not allow it to take hold. _Not now_. Not when there is so much to do.

She feels apart from herself when the guard binds her hands and slips a leash onto the collar. Her patience is stretched to its ultimate limit. She wants to scream. She wants to fight. But she has to wait until the time is right, to quiet the rage within until she can finally unleash it.

“You will walk quickly and you will not speak,” the guard snaps, giving her leash a harsh tug. “Do you understand?”

Lumen nods, her eyes flicking to the floor. The Thalmor may take it as a sign of deference, but it is only so they do not see the hatred in her eyes.

She is lead out of the dungeon and through the castle. She passes a line of Imperial officers, the weight of their eyes upon her is almost as heavy as the collar around her neck. To lose her to the Thalmor must be quite the insult, and she wonders how this will affect her life here in Skyrim when all is said and done-- assuming she survives, anyway. She supposes she will have no choice but to throw in her lot with Ulfric and hope he succeeds. But that is assuming Malrian doesn’t kill her, and as of this moment, his chances of success are certainly higher than hers.

Once outside the city, the Thalmor remove her shoes before they set off on the unpaved road just beyond the Solitude gates. It’s smart of them, given her propensity for escaping. Not that she could possibly escape the Thalmor this time around. She is collared, chained, gagged, and tethered to the surliest of the guards. His boot scuffs against the back of her heel every few paces, and he shoves her forward so hard she almost falls to her knees. The cloth gag in her mouth prevents her from gritting her teeth, which only adds to her anger. But her anger gives way to fear when they take a sharp left just beyond the ramparts and head down the path that leads to the docks.

The night is filled with the sounds of night birds and insects, and the thump of the Thalmor’s boots upon the wooden docks. The din of noise may as well be a death march, and her legs move in time with the rhythm of the guard’s boots, carrying her closer to the thing she’s been running from for so many years.

She’s so tired of running.

It would be easy to just give in. To throw herself at her master’s feet and beg. She would have years ago, back when she was nothing and no one. But, now? _Now_ she is the Dragonborn. More than that, she’s the Listener, and the Listener _will not_ bend her knee to some justiciar. That does not mean she isn’t afraid. She’s terrified. But she has endured his punishments, and she has survived them. She may not survive them now, but she’ll be damned if she dies cowering like a beaten dog. She will fight him until she has no more fight left.

Her jaw is set when the guards lead her up the plank and to the ship. The polished wood gleams where the moonlight touches it, and it is as dark as the Void in the shadows of the masts. The deck is mostly empty, with the exception of a few guards standing at their posts. The sailors have probably been sent to the inn since Malrian would require some privacy for whatever he plans to do to her. Lumen can hardly bear to think of what that entails.

Rather than being lead to the brig as she expects, she is lead to the back of the ship and shoved inside a large, well furnished room. The room is decorated with fine rugs woven with the intricate designs of Hammerfell, and furnished with dark cherry wood furniture. Every inch of the room reeks of her former master’s touch. From the crushed velvet curtains to the hand-polished floor. All that is missing is the presence of Malrian himself.

The guards shove her into an uncomfortable wooden chair, and strap her wrists to the armrests and her ankles to the front legs. Lumen growls around the offending gag in her mouth, much to the amusement of the guards. The guards pull the straps tight, and while the strap itself is made of a firm, oiled leather, the inside is lined with soft fur. She stares at her bound wrists, wondering what Malrian has planned for her.

“It’s so you don’t bruise,” Alerion says. “Justiciar Malrian would not see his property damaged after being away from it for so long.”

“Should we remove the gag?” the surly guard asks. “She can’t really Shout, can she?”

“The First Emissary seems to think there is some validity to that rumor,” the other guard says, clearly hesitant to find out for himself. “I would defer to justiciar Malrian’s judgment on this.”

“Come, Malrian will want to know that his property has been delivered,” Alerion snaps, turning on his heel and marching from the room with his two guards following close behind him.

The door swings closed, and for the first time in a long time, Lumen feels truly alone.

* * *

Arnbjorn’s pulse is pounding in his ears. All he can think about is Lumen being taken away to the dungeons, and the fact that there’s nothing he can do to help her. General Tullius’ suspicious glare and Legate Rikke’s sneer are of little importance in the wake of his feral rage. His skin is twitching, and his muscles are stiff and aching. It takes all his self control to keep from shifting right there.

“Detain the Dragonborn’s companion for questioning,” Tullius orders, and his guards converge on Arnbjorn.

He glances to where Cicero was, only to find nothing there. He’s gone. Flitted away in the flurry of commotion from before. _“Good,”_ he thinks. He is loathe to leave his life and Lumen’s life in the hands of a madman. But that madman is their only hope.

“Wasn’t there a second one?” a guard asks. “A little Imperial ponce.”

“Have the guards seal the city gates. Spread out and look for him.” Tullius turns to his legate. “Send someone down to the Blue Palace to tell Elisif what’s going on. I don’t need her storming down here and breathing down my neck again.” He turns back to Arnbjorn, who allows the guards to restrain him. “I hope you plan to come quietly, Nord.”

He glares down at the small, squirrely man. A man who would be no challenge if he didn’t have an army backing him. There’s nothing to say. Nothing he _wants_ to say.

“Take him down to the dungeon,” he barks, and Arnbjorn is led away.

Arnbjorn curses at himself as the guards escort him down the long, dark corridor that leads to the dungeon. He’d known something was up the moment they stepped foot inside the castle, he just wishes he’d had enough sense to drag Lumen out of there. The guards had been overly alert. The air smelled all wrong. It _reeked_ of magicka, he just hadn’t realized it was due to the Thalmor presence until it was too late.

He wishes he knew what Cicero is planning-- if anything. A jailbreak at nightfall, most likely. But it would be hours until then. He just hopes Lumen can wait that long. They won’t immediately begin interrogating her, and that knowledge is the only thing that’s keeping him calm. Tullius will let her sit in a cell for days and let the anxiety build. She will torture herself with paranoia before the real torture ever begins.

The true danger is the presence of the Thalmor. He recalls the capture orders sent by her former-- _whatever_. He would prefer not to use the word master, even though it is the truth. Lumen is rather tight-lipped about her past, but there is no need for him to ask her about it. The concept of master and slave is a common one that transcends all cultural boundaries. He cannot imagine the Lumen he knows bowing at anyone’s feet. Perhaps she did so in the past, but whoever she was then is long gone. If she has to face her former master again, one of them will surely die.

When they enter the dungeon, his eyes flit from cell to cell, his nose straining to pick up the Listener’s distinct scent; lavender and leather, with just a hint of something he can only define as _elven_. But the scent of fear and urine is overwhelming his senses, and he thinks he catches a hint of her in the stagnant air, but he cannot be sure. It could be nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him, because he so desperately needs that reassurance that she is nearby.

They search him before they toss him in a cell. Busy, annoying hands disarming him and further agitating the wolf within. Although, he does have to suppress a laugh when one of the guards asks what kind of animal the leather for his armor his made from. If they only knew…

The door slams closed. The sound of metal upon metal is a deafening shriek to his hypersensitive ears. It is only a matter of time before the full moons are in the sky, calling to him. If he shifts in here, the guards will surely kill him. All he can do is pace around his cell like some beast trapped in a cage, and hope that Cicero will free him. How strange it is, to put so much hope in him. But he has nothing else to hope for, and no one else to depend on in this moment. 

Lumen needs Cicero and so does he.

* * *

After using the guards’ distraction as a chance to slip away, Cicero ducks into a small supply closet not five feet from the general’s office. Lucky for him, the guards don’t seem to think a cluttered closet would house an assassin. The will find out-- _later_ , of course, once Cicero has freed his two companions. Granted, at the moment, he has no idea how to do that. It would be easy to gain access to the dungeon is he could find a spare guard uniform. But nothing of the sort seems to be in the dim, dusty closet. Just an assortment of cleaning supplies and parchment, and a filthy, old apron. The thought of pretending to be hired help galls him, but it will have to do. The longer he debates with himself, the less time Lumen has.

He waits for the guards to scatter. The sound of their clanking armor and loud footfalls fade away, and in their place, the gentle murmur of a hushed conversation that Cicero desperately wants to overhear. But he would have to be careful. He might be able to dupe Tullius and his guards if he dresses as a maid, but Elenwen would not be so easily fooled. He only saw her for a moment, but that woman has the gaze of a hungry hawk; watching and scrutinizing everything that moves, from the lowest servant to the highest ranking guard.

Cicero sighs as he drags his bare fingers along the sharp groove of his cheekbone. He could easily pass as a woman when his face was youthful and round. But the years have taken their toll and his features have matured. Too sharp and too masculine to pass as anything other than male. He needs proper makeup to contour his hard lines into something softer. But he'll have to make do with what he can find in the closet; dirt and an old dress discarded by a housekeeper who was quite possibly engaging in some amorous activities within the closet.

He pulls the dress on over his clothes, hoping to give the illusion of curves. He even stuffs some rags in the front of the dress, making sure to adjust them so they are even, and wishing he had a mirror so he could inspect his disguise. It’s not a very good one, he knows that. But it would have to do.

The hallway outside the storage room is empty, except for two shadows cast upon the wall. The flickering firelight from the sconces in Tullius’ office makes the shadows dance, but judging by the angry voices coming from within the room, dancing is the last thing on their minds.

“The Thalmor have no right to claim the prisoner!” Tullius snaps. “She is a suspect in the emperor's murder and therefore a ward of the Empire!”

“And the Empire is a ward of the Aldmeri Dominion,” comes Elenwen’s imperious voice. “The Dominion had a claim on her before she ever stepped foot in this castle, and that claim remains.”

It is surprisingly easy to move through the castle without notice. A dowdy maid sweeping the floor is not exactly worth noting, especially since the guards are all looking for a flamboyantly dressed Imperial. While Cicero has a propensity toward gaudy, fancy clothing, he had dressed that way for a reason. He didn’t know that Lumen would be arrested, but he figured he ought to be prepared for the worst. He’s always prepared, and he never does anything without a damn good reason. Perhaps Lumen and Arnbjorn will finally appreciate his odd ways when he rescues them from the dungeons.

He makes his way down a long, dimly lit hall. The stench of mildew growing stronger as he nears the dungeon door, where a lone guard stands vigil. For a jail housing the suspected murderer of an emperor, it is sparsely guarded. He supposes most of the guards have been scattered out through the castle and the city of Solitude in search for him. The thought that he is being hunted down thrills him. It’s been ages since Cicero has been chased. Although, it would be more fun if his siblings lives weren’t on the line.

In one, fluid motion, he snaps the broom handle across his knee and stabs the surprised guard in the side. The jagged, sharp wood slipping through a weak point in his armor and straight into his heart. The guard’s cry of outrage is quickly silenced by blood flooding his mouth. He falls to the floor, still alive enough to be aware of Cicero taking his sword and the keys, and still left with enough fight to glare at his assassin before he finally slips into the Void.

“Another soul for Sithis,” he sing-songs, reveling in the sight of spilled blood before moving on.

Beyond the locked door are two more guards that Cicero quickly dispatches. He is still for a moment, his ears straining for any sound of approaching guards. When he feels certain he has a few moments alone, he claims the less bloody armor from one of the guards and searches for the prison roster. Once he finds the cell numbers of his companions, he heads deeper into the prison with a sword in one hand and the keys in the other. If he passes by any other guards he will kill them and move on, he is running out of time and he doesn’t have a moment to spare for secrecy.

Cicero comes to Arnbjorn’s cell first, and he is tempted to make a joke at his brother’s expense, but decides otherwise when he catches sight of him. Arnbjorn’s fragile grip on humanity is starting to slip as the day fades to dusk. His eyes are a shining, bright silver, and his pupils are drawn into pinpoints, giving him a distinctly non-human appearance. More disturbing than that is the sight of his fingernails, which are long, sharp, and much thicker than normal.

“Will you be able to control yourself until we are out of the city?” Cicero asks. He’d rather not deal with Arnbjorn’s wolf form again. Once was enough.

“Yes,” Arnbjorn growls, his pronunciation slurred due to elongated canine teeth. “But let’s move fast.”

Cicero unlocks the cell door, and he doesn’t wait for Arnbjorn as he takes off to where Lumen’s cell is. He can hear the heavy footfalls of his brother following close behind him anyway.

“Worry not, sweet Lumen, your rescue has finally come!” he says as he bounces toward the cell. But when he reaches the cell he does not see Lumen, just a dirty, male Nord in rags. “You are not Lumen…”

“They took her,” he says, his voice rough from going too long without water. The prisoner stumbles toward the cell door, gripping the bars to hold himself up. “They took the Dragonborn!”

“ _Who_ took her?” Cicero asks, although he already knows the answer. He thought he could beat the Thalmor, but leave it to Elenwen to ask permission to take the prisoner after she’d already done it. Typical.

“The Thalmor,” the prisoner gasps. “Maybe half an hour ago.”

Cicero tosses the keys to the prisoner, but not out of any true desire to help the man. A jailbreak will distract the guards and give the two assassins some time to flee the city unnoticed. “Free yourself and your comrades,” he tells him. “You have ten minutes before the guards take notice.”

The prisoner thanks him, but Cicero cannot respond because Arnbjorn is dragging him away by the collar. “I don’t have ten minutes,” he growls. “We need to go. _Now_.”

“Right,” Cicero sighs, silently cursing his lot in life. A twitchy werewolf and a missing Listener are bad enough, but he’s got to escape a prison and a city with every guard on high alert. Surely the ones he killed have been noticed by now. “Right,” he says again, pulling away from Arnbjorn’s grasp. “Can you even do anything useful with your curse, brother?”

“What do you mean?” Arnbjorn growls. 

“Well, it would be decidedly more useful to poor Cicero if you could eat some guards, or kill the nasty Thalmor who have absconded with our sweet Lumen.” Cicero does not bother to keep his annoyance from his voice. He doesn't like being so obvious, but he does not wish to contend with some rabid beast while his Listener is in danger. “Or are you simply a mindless, bloodthirsty beast when you change?”

Arnbjorn’s lips thin, but he holds his temper. “I am aware of myself when I am the wolf.”

“Good,” Cicero snaps, his anxiety building with each second that ticks by. “See if you can’t track the Thalmor down once we’re outside the city gates.”

“Just try to keep up,” Arnbjorn grumbles as he stalks off toward the exit.

Cicero chases after him, his weapons at the ready.

* * *

This room is just a room like any other. Tacky, overpriced decorations made by the hands of the underpaid in some far off land, and sold as exorbitant prices to nobles who would toss them in a few years when decorating styles changed. And in Alinor, style is as inconsistent as the wind.

It is just a room. But a careful eye knows what to look for, and Lumen is not distracted by lace and chintz, and whatever pretty baubles Malrian has sitting around. Her eyes focus on the mundane elements; a roll of thick leather sitting on the desk, hiding various instruments of torture that have yet to be used. Metal rings bolted to the floor in specific places around the room. By the bed, the desk, even near the privy. Clearly, he plans to keep her leashed and very close by.

_“Good,”_ she says to herself. _“He’ll be easier to kill that way.”_ Although how she is supposed to kill him while bound and gagged is beyond her, and the fact that she seems to think she can is nothing more than a testament to her stupidity. Just when she is about to lose herself in the throes of self-loathing, the door opens.

He looks just as she remembers. Pale golden skin, long white hair with nary a strand out of place, and cold, cruel eyes. His lips are curled in a smirk that is marred by a wound she gave him before she made her final escape. She is glad to see that a scar remains. He had always been so vain.

_Her hand twists around the gilded hilt of a knife, its jewel encrusted patterns pressing painfully into the palm of her hand. That pain is but a shadow of what she plans to unleash upon her master. He did not see her coming, or maybe he did, but he did not think she would attack him as she is now. Either way, his failure to act will cost him dearly. Lumen makes sure of that as the blade slips under his upper lip, chipping teeth and slicing his gums until piercing through the tender flesh of his cheek. The blade scrapes along his cheek bone and finally exits the skin just beneath his eye socket. For a moment she considers finishing the job. Removing the eye and more. But her master is howling in pain and his guards will be there at any moment. This is her one chance to flee, and she will not squander it._

“It’s been a long time, pet,” Malrian drawls as he closes the door behind him. “I have spent many years and thousands in gold just to find you.”

Lumen growls, feeling sick at being called _pet_ again after so long. She is no pet.

“I suspect we have much to talk about, and I will remove your gag in a moment.” He tilts his head, regarding her with a lazy, curious smile. “I’ll leave it in for now, it would be a shame if you bit your tongue.”

She steels herself upon hearing those words, knowing what is about to come. Malrian snaps his fingers and the collar ignites, sending wave after wave of white-hot, electrical pain through every nerve in her body. Lumen is only dimly aware of her wrists straining against her binds. Alerion’s words of _“It’s so you don’t bruise,”_ echoing through her frayed mind. She would laugh if she had the power to, but now it is all she can do to remain conscious.

She had forgotten this pain. She had forgotten the agony of magic forcing its way beneath her skin, twisting her muscles and snapping at her nerves, until she is certain her bones have splintered and all she can do is scream until there is no breath left in her. With another snap of his fingers, the magic in the collar fizzles out and Lumen shudders with the aftershocks. 

When she finally opens her eyes she is staring at the planked ceiling of the room. She must have knocked the chair off balance at some point, but she didn’t notice until now. There is a dull ache in the back of her head, and her muscles are screaming from being tensed for so long, but she will not shed a single tear.

Malrian steps across the room and grabs the back of the chair, yanking her upright so quickly her head spins. “That was but a taste of what I have planned for you,” he says, finally pulling the gag from her mouth. “You may beg for forgiveness, and perhaps I will go easy on you. But you have been the cause of much embarrassment, and you've cost me more gold than you are truly worth. So perhaps I won’t show you any mercy. Still, it does not hurt to ask.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Lumen rasps. The man she has feared for so long may have her at a disadvantage, but he is just an elf. Despite his power, he is not the monster she remembers. He is mortal. He is just flesh and bone, strung together with sinew. Full of insecurities and banal desires. He is not worthy of her fear.

“Such language,” Malrian drawls. “And here I was hoping we could have a civilized conversation.”

“You threw civility out the window when your guards strapped me to this chair!” she snaps, and he regards her with some amusement. Never before did she speak against him. He is used to the weak, little girl that she was. He has never been introduced to the woman she has become; scared, but strong. “I don’t have time for this!”

“What could you possibly have to do that is so important?” he asks, a sneer curling his scarred lip. “Playing hero to the Nords? I’ll admit that pretending to be their precious Dragonborn is quite clever, but you will not fool me. I know you, Lumen, and you are nothing more than property. You are _mine_ , and you always will be.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, in a vain attempt to control her anger. _She does not have time for this._ She has to find Arnbjorn and Cicero, and she has to pander to jarls and kill a fucking god, and run the Dark Brotherhood in the meantime. Being Malrian’s prisoner is a waste of her precious time.

“I am my own,” she says, her voice shaking. “I belong to no one.”

Malrian laughs, and he says something, but it is lost in the roar of a Shout. She inhales air, speaking the words _Yol Toor Shul_ as a whisper, but when that whisper touches the air it erupts into an inferno. The flames lap at the wood and velvet all around them, and swirl toward the stunned face of her former master.

He throws up a ward before the flames can reach him, and sends a blast of frost to douse the fire that threatens to consume the divan. Lumen can’t help but grin at the stunned look on his face. She knows this little act of defiance may cost her dearly, but it is worth it.

“I see there is some truth to the rumors of what you can do,” he says, his voice losing some of the edge from earlier. “All the more reason to get you back under Thalmor control.”

_“I’d rather die,”_ is on the tip of her tongue, but the words stick in her throat when a large crash from above grabs her attention. There is screaming and the scrape of metal upon wood, as if one of the guards is being dragged by something large-- certainly too large to be Cicero. But then the scream gutters out, and it is followed by the tell-tale thump of a body hitting the ground.

“Expecting a rescue?” Malrian asks, glancing up at the ceiling, were a stream of sticky blood has begun to drip through the cracks in the wood, soiling his expensive rug. He steps around the rapidly growing pool of blood, and he caresses her face with a false sweetness. “Do not dare to hope, pet. I have come too far to find you, and I will not lose you now.”

His warning falls flat amid all the screaming coming from above them, and Lumen _does_ hope. Because only Arnbjorn and Cicero could be the cause of so much carnage. Only her brothers would orchestrate a massacre just for her.

The fingertips trailing along her cheekbone spark with electricity, sending a shockwave across her body that makes the shock from the collar feel like the memory of a light breeze. Pain surges through every nerve, and when her vision goes black she welcomes the sweet kiss of unconsciousness, but it never comes. Because in the span of a second the pain lifts, and she is gasping for air, and the sound is muffled all around her, but she can _see_.

She watches as Malrian stumbles toward his desk, clutching fruitlessly at a small dagger lodged in his shoulder. She watches as Cicero stalks toward her, covered in blood and with his hair sticking to his sweaty face. But he is _alive_ and he is there, and he is the most beautiful sight she has ever known.

“What took you so long?” she says, offering him a weak smile.

Cicero’s eyes remain focused on Malrian as he crosses the room. The justiciar and the assassin staring each other down, but neither making a move to attack just yet. “Well, breaking Arnbjorn out of jail took some time, and then I had to find Shadowmere so I could change into my motley. Poor Cicero cannot be expected to rescue his sweet Listener while he’s dressed in rags.”

“You took a detour to change your clothes?” she asks, torn between amusement and anger. She should have known he stashed his motley somewhere. The saddlebags would be the perfect place to hide it. “Whatever-- I don’t care. Just get me out of here!”

“Stop!” Malrian shouts, tossing the small dagger aside and summoning a spell. Blue light swirls around his hands, similar to that of a frost spell but the smell is like ozone. An ice spike, then. A deadly and destructive spell that is almost always fatal if it hits. “Do not move, Imperial!”

Cicero’s smile only widens. “So this is him?” he asks, taking slow, deliberate, _taunting_ steps toward Lumen, all while keeping eye contact with Malrian. “The famed destroyer of the Dark Brotherhood? He’s not as scary as Cicero initially thought.”

Lumen struggles against her binds when Maliran throws an ice spike toward Cicero, who narrowly dodges it. The spike plunges into the wood floor, splintering the wood and sending shards scattering. “Cicero, hurry!” she gasps.

“Yes, yes, Cicero is trying not to get himself killed, thank you very much!” Despite his grumbling he plants a quick kiss on her cheek before tugging the straps around her wrists free. He frowns at the collar around her neck, but he soon turns his attention back to Malrian, who is advancing on them.

“How do you know about my involvement with the Dark Brotherhood?” Malrian asks, his hands poised to unleash another spell. “Only Thalmor are privy to such information.”

“I told him,” Lumen says, freeing herself from the binds around her ankles and quickly moving to stand at Cicero’s side. “As a Dark Brotherhood assassin, he deserves to know, don’t you think?”

“An assassin?” Malrian’s lips curl into a grim smile. “Then it appears that I was not as thorough as I thought,” he says, his eyes trained on Cicero. “No matter, _assassin_. I will kill you, just as I killed your foul brethren. Perhaps I will burn you as I burned your precious Listener. What was her name? Alisanne? She was an impressive woman. She withstood the pain for quite a while before she finally begged for death.”

She’s seen Malrian do this before. Target his enemy and taunt them until they are careless with rage. But Cicero, as wild and unhinged as he may be, is seldom careless. There is control in everything he does. However, Lumen has her doubts about how much control Cicero has at the moment, because it is clear that Malrian’s taunting has gone too far. His face is rigid with anger, his dark eyes blazing with a rage born of old pain. He is wound as tight as a coil, and Lumen fears that a single touch might snap what’s left of his remaining self-control. 

But Cicero surprises her, as he often does, and after taking a deep breath to steady himself he smiles. It is no true smile, though. It is a vicious and hard, and if Malrian has any sense at all he’d put as much space between himself and the assassin as he could. But he is no different from the other Thalmor Lumen has faced in the past. He is convinced of his victory before the fight even begins.

“Anything else?” Cicero asks, his voice clipped and sharp as if he were berating an initiate for a sloppy kill. “You’ve got panache, I will give you that. But Cicero does not have all night to sit here and listen to you vent your hot air. So either make good on your threats, or shut up and die.”

A wave of fear skitters down her spine. It is almost sick how she still harbors a deep seeded fear of Malrian. She knows he is not the indomitable monster she always thought he was, but that does not stop her from fearing for Cicero’s life when he dares to speak against him. She can barely move when Malrian flings a spray of ice shards their way, but she urges her heavy legs to move, because she will not give Malrian the satisfaction of drawing her blood. She has bled enough for him.

She advances on him, her collar sparking painfully, but he is too focused on Cicero to bother with her. The jester effortlessly dodges his attacks; leaping away from shards of ice and ducking under a gout of flame that _almost_ got too close for comfort. He’s deliberately distracting Malrian, leaving his fate in Lumen’s very capable hands. As she draws closer she realizes he’s not as tall as she remembers, there is a hunch to his shoulders that betrays his exhaustion, and once again she is struck by how _average_ he is. But it is difficult to take comfort in that when his eyes are the same. Hungry and piercing, perfectly assured of his own strength and his mastery over the slave standing before him. 

The fight around her is little more than a buzz in her ears when her attention is drawn to a glimmer of gold, and her eyes land upon a letter opener sitting on his desk. It is an innocuous thing, really. But not to her. Not _this_ one. Too many times has its blade tasted her blood and spilt her tears. She grabs the knife without any deliberation, its handle feeling _right_ in her palm and its blade thirsting for blood-- but it will not be hers.

The air is thick with magic as Cicero puts Malrian through his paces, but even the seasoned assassin is beginning to tire. But Lumen has to wait for the right opportunity to strike, and when Malrian turns his back on her to send a flurry of sparks toward Cicero, she steps forward. Time slows and her feet feel heavy, so she focuses on putting one foot in front of the other until she is right at Malrian’s back. With both hands wrapped around the hilt she forces the blade forward as hard as she can; hard enough to pierce through his thick, leather robes. Hard enough to cut through flesh and tendons before finally coming to rest between the vertebrae of his spine. His scream is more like the shuddering gasp of a slaughtered animal, and he falls to his knees, then to his side. He is alive, but immobile. 

“The knife in your back is poetic, don’t you think?” Lumen comes to stand over him, the weak sparking of the enchanted collar a mere tickle now. 

“How _dare_ you,” he spits, his voice shaking with pain and the sick, sad realization of his ultimate fate. “How dare you turn on me, pet, when I am the one who--”

“I am not your pet!” she shouts, the word burning at the back of her throat like an acrid poison.

“He seems surprised,” says Cicero, who is slightly winded and moderately singed, but no worse for wear. “Did he really think you wouldn’t fight back? Or that you would be alone in this?”

“Undoubtedly,” she murmurs, kneeling down beside her former master, and gently brushing his hair from his face. “I know time passes differently for you Altmer, so I’ll try to explain this using small, simple words so that your poor, brainwashed mind can comprehend. I’ve been free from you for twelve years. I know that’s not a long time to you, but it’s been a very, very long time for me. I am not the same girl you left beaten and bloody in the cellar of your home. I am the girl who gave you this scar.” She runs her finger along the gnarled scar that mars his once perfect face. “I tried to kill you, but I failed. I am not going to fail twice, Malrian.”

“My darling girl, please have mercy,” he implores, hoping for empathy. Unfortunately for him, he killed that part of her heart a long time ago. “Remove the knife. Allow me to heal myself so we can talk. Clearly there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“You put a collar around my neck,” she snaps. “That’s hardly what I would call a misunderstanding.”

“Lumen, _please_.”

“Kill him,” Cicero says, his voice as sharp as the dagger he passes to her. “Think of all he’s done to you, and to the Brotherhood--”

“And to you,” she murmurs.

Even with the knife poised in her hand, she hesitates. For all the pain that he has caused, it is difficult to kill him. It is so easy to recall all the times he abused her simply for his own amusement, and to draw on the anger those memories unleash. It’s hard to believe the Altmer cowering on the floor is the same man whose memory chased Lumen all over Tamriel. In this weak state, it is much easier for her to remember the moments where he was kind, and perhaps that is what Malrian is hoping for.

Cicero seems to sense her hesitation, and he wraps his hand around hers to steady her grip. “Tell Cicero what is wrong,” he urges. “Can you not decide if you want to give him a quick death or a slow one?”

“It’s complicated,” she says, deciding she’ll deal with her warring emotions at some other time. When she is ready, she might mourn the death of the only father she has ever known. But for now, she will revel in the death of the Thalmor who killed her mother and nearly destroyed the Dark Brotherhood. “We don’t have time to draw this out. We’ll make it quick.”

“You’re lucky the Listener is feeling merciful,” Cicero grins at Malrian. “Cicero would not be. But time is of the essence and we have important things to do. You understand, surely.”

Malrian does not respond. His ice blue eyes remain fixed on Lumen, as if he is hoping for one last chance to sway his pet to his side. At one time it would have worked. Before she knew the Night Mother’s acceptance and before Cicero. But now, all she wants is to end this so she can stop running from her past and just move forward into the future

With that desire in mind, she shoves the ebony blade between his ribs and into his cruel, callous heart.

* * *

Time moves at a snail’s pace as the Thalmor bleeds out on his expensive, hand-woven rug. Lumen’s eyes are riveted to the face of the Altmer, watching as his life fades. Cicero pries her fingers from his dagger so that he may clean it. As much as the Thalmor deserved to suffer at the hands of his pretty Listener, she is right, they do not have the time for such things. They need to return to the Sanctuary, see to Mother, figure out how to remove that blasted collar from her neck, and then his sweet Lumen must convince the jarls to behave long enough for her to save the world.

“Are you well?” he asks, growing concerned at her stillness.

His heart nearly shatters when her face crumples in grief. “I thought this would feel better,” she says pitifully. “I thought it would mean something.”

Cicero wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her away from the dead Thalmor. “Maybe you just need to give it time.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter, what’s done is done,” she says, some of her usual strength returning to her voice. “I just want to go home.”

They do not bother to pick through the Thalmor’s belongings. His Listener would not want to keep a souvenir of this kill, and Cicero has no burning desire to take anything the wretched elf has touched. Instead of looting, they make their way up to the deck of the ship to find the remains of Arnbjorn’s slaughter.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lumen breathes.

Cicero has to agree with that sentiment. It is not often that a pair of assassins are stunned at the sight of a massacre, but Arnbjorn’s handiwork is definitely something to be admired. The deck of the ship is a sea of blood and viscera. The guards aren’t simply mauled, as a normal wolf would do. They are torn to shreds and strewn about the deck in so many pieces, Cicero is hard pressed to guess which set of legs belong to which torso.

“I see no sign of our wolf,” Cicero says, for no other reason than to fill the silence with noise. “I suppose his hunger was not quite sated.”

“I suppose not,” she says. “I didn’t realize what a raging werewolf was capable of. How did you ever manage to outrun him?”

“Dumb luck,” he admits.

Lumen sighs, and then turns away from the slaughter to stare at Cicero. Her gaze is hard, but warm in many ways. “Thank you,” she says, her voice so quiet, her words are almost lost to the wind. Her fingers find their way into his hair, gripping hard at the back of his scalp as she pulls him close for a kiss. It is almost innocent at first; the soft press of her lips and a shy swipe of her tongue inside his mouth. It abruptly grows more heated the longer it lasts, but she pulls away just as quickly.

There is so much he would like to tell her. He would love to say there is no reason to thank him, because he would never leave her behind, and he would do everything he could to save her, even if it meant giving his own life to do so. But there is no time for words. The guards are approaching and the two assassins would do well to make themselves scarce.  


So without further ado, they move through the shadows of the night. Both eager to be home, and as far away from Thalmor and Imperial soldiers as they can possibly get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It really sucks when you’ve been wanting something for so long, only to get it and find out that it’s just not as great as you thought it would be. Sorry, Lumen. :/
> 
> Malrian’s death was a disappointment for Lumen, but I hope this chapter wasn’t disappointing to my readers! I am so sorry it took me so long to get a new chapter out! I really fought with this one. I actually re-wrote it 3 times. I’ve been planning to write it for so long, when the time finally came to work on it I just starting drawing blanks. It was annoying. So I just had to wait for the right inspiration to hit. I was also worried that I would utterly fail as showing that Malrian just isn’t the threat Lumen always perceived him to be. Not when she’s got Alduin looming over her… Don’t worry, though. She’s definitely not okay after this. There is angst to come.
> 
> Also, everyone totally owes Cicero now. Trust him to use that to his benefit. XD


	38. A Hag's Favor

Lumen’s mood lifts when she catches sight of the Black Door. It’s not the first time the sight of the ominous door has given her comfort when she needed it most. She is _home_ , and her family is on the other side, along with the warm, welcoming presence of the Night Mother. It occurs to her that they have been away from home for far too long. Weeks, in fact. Cicero hasn’t complained once about needing to take care of Mother. Perhaps he knew the Listener needed him more.

The sanctuary is mostly silent save for the quiet conversations filtering up from the common area. But once Babette and Luka catch sight of the Listener and her Keeper dragging their weary arses in, the sanctuary explodes into a din of jubilant noise. The entire family rushes up to the overlook to greet them. Luka wraps them both in a crushing hug, babbling on about how he’s missed them both and he cannot wait to hear all about their adventures. Babette pats Lumen on the hand, which is the most affection she’s ever received from the little vampire. Nazir seems oddly happy to see them, claiming the sanctuary has been entirely too peaceful and quiet since they’ve been gone. Lumen wonders at Arnbjorn’s absence, but she figures the werewolf is still on the hunt. Even Eola and Cyril come to say hello, and while Eola looks happy enough, Cyril has a deep scowl creasing his brow.

“Mistress, that _collar_ ,” he says, his eyes riveted to the thick, gold band around her neck. To anyone else, it would simply appear to be a gaudy bit of jewelry. But _of course_ an Altmer would know what it is. “You were captured by Thalmor.”

The room falls silent, all eyes turning to her. “It’s a long story,” she says, fingering the sealed clasp of the collar. “And one I plan to tell, but only after I’ve seen to Mother and had a bath.”

“How does the collar work, Listener?” Babette asks, stepping closer for a better look and completely ignoring Lumen’s earlier order. “Is it locked by magic?”

“It is,” she sighs. “It’s deactivated now because the mage who created it is dead, but the lock still holds so that another Thalmor can take possession of the slave in the event of the master’s death.”

“Perhaps I could take a look at it later on,” comes Luka’s timid voice. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“I don’t mind,” she says, offering him a smile. “Now, if I could have a little privacy…” Her words taper off, but she motions to the Night Mother. Her siblings all understand her need for privacy, and once they return to their respective duties, Lumen sits down in front of the Night Mother's coffin. Cicero lurks behind her somewhere, as he often does when she Listens.

A presence settles over her, and she can feel the warm, loving arms of the Night Mother, welcoming her child home after being gone for far too long. There is a loud buzzing in her ears, accompanied by the steady, ethereal beating of a heart that was stilled long ago, but now lives on in service to the Dread Father. Lumen’s aching muscles are temporarily soothed by whatever magic Mother is swaddling her in, and the sensation is enough to bring tears to her eyes. Too long has she gone without Mother’s loving embrace.

_“I am pleased to see my loyal Keeper and my Listener returned to me. It has been too long since we last spoke, child. You’ve been quite busy. I am unaccustomed to having a Listener whose attentions are so scattered.”_

Lumen flinches. “I-- forgive me, Mother. I will do better.”

_“Do not apologize, sweet child. I realize that I am not the only one who has a claim on you, only that mine will remain long after you have fulfilled your obligation to Akatosh. You have avenged my children who fell in Cyrodiil, and I can ask little else of you. I am most pleased with your progress, but I can see that you are not.”_

“It feels hollow,” Lumen admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

_“Revenge often does.”_

Mother says nothing more on the subject after that, and goes on to list the names and locations of new patrons. A woman in Rorikstead wants her cheating husband killed, and a man in Riften wants his son-in-law to become the victim of a hunting accident. There are others. So many more deaths petitioned by meaningless people for meaningless reasons. Mostly disputes over land, titles, and gold. But the Night Mother doesn’t judge, and neither should Lumen. Not when she’s killed so many for no reason at all.

The Night Mother’s presence lifts, and the chill of the sanctuary penetrates to the bone as Lumen finds herself reliving an old, and once pleasant, memory.

_“Why are you doing this?” the Altmer gasps, his golden face streaked with tears. “Who sent you?”_

_“No one sent me,” the newly freed slave says, watching as the mer turns to look at the body of his dead lover; his torso split open and his innards spilled upon the floor. His body is wracked by mournful sobs as he looks away from the empty husk that was once the man he loved._

_“Then, why? Why us? What did we do to you?”_

_“Your lover got in my way,” she says, emotionless and cruel. “I came for you.”_

_“Why?” he demands again, a flicker of anger in his voice._

_“Because you look like him,” she whispers, staring into a face with cool, green eyes, framed by long, white hair. He is not identical to her master, but close enough so that she could live out the fantasy of killing him._

_She doesn’t give him a moment to question what she means, nor can he fight back when she sinks her blade into his chest, stabbing over and over again, until the bloody knife slips from her hand. There is warm blood dripping down her face, and the weight of her body on the dead mer’s chest causes him to sputter, the last of his air seeping out through numerous punctures. Lumen rubs her hands together, reveling in the sensation of the slick, slippery blood. She knows the feeling won’t last. This sick satisfaction never does. She’ll take a trophy to trigger a memory, and that will satisfy her for a while. But eventually the urge will hit her and she’ll have to hunt again. She always does._

The pleasure of that memory turns to bitter ashes in her mouth. She doesn’t feel guilty, only stupid. Malrian was hardly a challenge. How long did she run away from him? How long did she fear him? Her past victims proved to be more of a challenge than he was, and maybe that’s why her revenge feels so hollow. How weak is she, to be so afraid of someone so average?

Worst of all, there is a small part of her that secretly grieves. Malrian was not always cruel, and for some reason, memories of his kinder moments keep floating to the surface. The Thalmor she hated was also the father she loved. The same Altmer who murdered her mother was also the one who would check under her bed and in her wardrobe for monsters. He spoiled and abused her in equal measure, never allowing her to find comfort in the promise of consistency. If he was cruel one day, he was kind the next, and the knowledge that his moods were as wild as the wind always kept her on her toes.

“Lumen?” Cicero kneels down beside her, his hand hovering over her shoulder, as if he’s afraid she’ll shatter if he touches her. “You have been staring for--er, quite some time. Are you well?”

“No, I’m not,” she answers truthfully. She hands the list of contracts to Cicero and finally stands, her knees aching from kneeling for so long. “Would you take that to Nazir? I’m going to take a bath. I-- I need to be alone for a little while.”

Lumen walks swiftly through the sanctuary, her throat growing tight and tears pricking at the back of her eyes. _“What the fuck is wrong with me?”_ she wonders. Never before has she felt so conflicted after a kill.

The air in her bedroom is stale from being closed up for so long, but she has missed the comfort her room provides. After lighting a few candles she draws herself a bath, finally shucking the filthy, tattered remains of her new dress. Her cotton smalls and breastband follow shortly after, leaving her nude, and feeling dreadfully exposed even though she is all alone. She is not ashamed of her skin so much as she is ashamed of the emotions that are showing so plainly on her face.

She steps into the bath, sinking into the water that is just a touch too hot, and she recalls a time when Malrian attempted to drown her in a similar tub for some reason or another. It is difficult to remember all the reasons and excuses for what he did to her, they all run together after a while. All that remains is the overwhelming feeling of worthlessness. It’s a feeling she hoped would vanish upon his death, but unfortunately killing the man who abused her does not erase the memories of what he put her through. If anything, they are worse.

Lumen grips the edges of the tub so hard her fingernails bend against the pressure, and she squeezes her eyes shut tight in a vain attempt to stem to flow of tears that have begun to fall. She takes a deep breath, wincing at how pathetic and _strange_ her sobs sound to her own ears. Malrian’s death was supposed to fix everything, so _why_ is she so miserable?

She doesn’t know how long she cries, she only knows that the bathwater is cool by the time she feels a hand on her shoulder and a soothing voice in her ear. She flinches away from Cicero, utterly embarrassed for him to see her falling apart.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, wiping at her eyes. “Sorry-- _fuck_ , this is embarrassing. You’re not supposed to see me like this.”

“Who better than Cicero?” he asks, forcing a smile. “I know you wished to be left alone, but I grew concerned after a while.”

“I’m fine,” she says, knowing he’ll see through her flimsy lie. “I’m just exhausted.”

Cicero heaves a sigh as he helps Lumen step out of the bath. “You do not have to save face in front of me,” he grumbles, wrapping a towel around her shoulders. “Crying in the bath in the aftermath of all that has happened is hardly embarrassing. Besides, it is an ideal place to cry. You are already wet.”

She breaths a tired laugh at that. “You need to rest,” she says, pulling away from him to toss her towel aside in favor of a robe. “You shouldn’t be looking after me.”

“Cicero likes looking after you, sweetness,” he says, some humor creeping into his voice. “The view is quite nice.”

Lumen does smile at that, but it quickly fades. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t showed up,” she admits. “I owe you my life-- or my freedom, at the very least.”

“You owe Cicero nothing. But if you wish to thank him, then you may do so in naked, naughty ways.”

“Be serious!” she says, unable to keep from smiling at him.

“Cicero _is_ being serious,” he says, stepping closer to her. “You owe me nothing. I only did what needed to be done. What kind of Keeper would I be if I just allowed some nasty Thalmor to abscond with my sweet Listener?”

Lumen sighs, deciding to drop the subject for now. She reaches out and caresses his cheek before pulling him close and wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I was afraid the guards killed you and Arnbjorn.”

“It is a good thing you did not become a seer, you’re predictions are terribly off,” he says, attempting to nuzzle the crook of her neck before quickly pulling away. “This collar has _got_ to go.”

“Removing the collar may prove difficult,” she says, rubbing under her neck where the collar has begun to chafe. “The Thalmor are very tight-lipped about their magical techniques.”

“Let the Thalmor have their secrets,” Cicero sniffs, clearly _done_ with the subject of Thalmor for now. “Both Luka and Eola have some theories as to how they may remove the collar, if you are willing to let them try.”

“I’m willing,” she says, although she is a little nervous about the idea. “I’ll get dressed and go talk to them. I want nothing more than to sleep right now, but there’s no way I can sleep with this thing around my neck.”

“Need any help?” he offers with a grin.

“If I let you help, then getting dressed will take hours rather than minutes,” she says, returning the smile.

“Mm, well, Cicero would prefer it if that damned collar was removed.” He boosts himself onto the tips of his toes to kiss her ear. “It is rather difficult for Cicero to nibble his pretty Listener’s neck with that terrible bit of metal in the way,” he says, nibbling on her ear instead.

“You’re distracting me,” Lumen says, finding it difficult to push him away.

“Good,” he says, laughing. “That is what Cicero is trying to do.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I _can’t_ \--” her voice falters, because she is reluctant to push him away. She would give anything to lose herself to his gentle touch for just a little while. But the weight of the collar is heavy and oppressive, and it is one last reminder of her former life that she desperately needs to be free of.

“Oh, very well,” he says, sounding a little disappointed, but he quickly recovers. “Cicero shall attempt to behave himself.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she laughs, pulling away from him. “You very rarely behave.”

“What?” he gasps, all mock offense. “Cicero is a perfect, little Aedra! He never does anything he’s not supposed to do!”

She laughs at that. It is a giddy, strange laugh, but it feels so much better to laugh than to cry. Getting dressed is made all the more difficult by Cicero’s demands for an apology, and claiming that he’s never been so deeply insulted in all his life. But eventually Lumen promises to make it up to him when she is free of the collar, and that seems to satisfy him for the time being.

* * *

Lumen walks down the hallway with Cicero skipping ahead of her. Although she is grateful for his good humor, she knows he’s exhausted, he’s just refusing to let it show in front of the others. She always did like the cheerfulness of his chosen persona. It contrasts nicely with his vicious smile, macabre sense of humor, and dark eyes that have surely seen more death than she would ever know about.

Cicero bounds down the stairs that lead to the common area to entertain their brothers and sisters with tales of their misadventures. Lumen hesitates at the first step, before backing away and giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts before she faces an onslaught of questions. The overlook is always such a relaxing and peaceful place. The scents of beeswax and sacred incense mull in the chilly air, and there is always a soft, pulsating hum just on the edge of her hearing. It’s the Night Mother’s way of letting her Listener know that she is nearby, even if she is choosing not to speak.

She leans against a moss stained wall, simply enjoying the Night Mother’s presence and the distant sound of Cicero’s voice. She registers the sound of the Black Door opening, and of approaching footsteps, but she pays it little mind. Even without looking up, or calling out, she knows it’s Arnbjorn returning home from his hunt. The scent of leather and blood is unmistakable.

“Tidbit.”

Lumen glances up at the sound of his voice, and she is surprised to see him looking reasonably clean and still dressed in the Savior’s Hide. But she supposes the daedra-blessed armor probably doesn’t rip as normal clothing would when a werewolf changes forms. Arnbjorn regards her for a moment, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl-- as usual. But then he moves forward, walking swiftly until he is standing right in front of her and pulling her toward him. Her body stiffens against the unusual display of affection, but she quickly relaxes against him thanks to the gentle hands kneading the tense muscles in her shoulders, and the warm breath against her scalp.

“Did I worry you or something?” she asks, striving for levity, because Arnbjorn worrying about her (let alone _hugging_ her) is simply too weird to deal with right now. She’s used to this kind of behavior from Cicero, but not from the gruff Nord.

He gives her a tight squeeze before backing away and awkwardly clearing his throat. “I’m glad to see you’re in one piece,” he says gruffly. “I figured you and Cicero would make it home safely, but I couldn't help but worry. We've had a run of back luck lately.”

“That we have.” Her reply is just as awkward, and when he reaches out to touch the gold collar around her neck, his eyes full of questions, she says, “Don’t worry about it. Luka and Eola are going to try to remove it. It’s not a big deal.”

“And if they can’t remove it?” he asks, no doubt sensing that she’s trying to avoid this topic.

“Then I’m fucked,” she says blithely. “Come on.” She grabs his hand and leads him down the staircase to where her family is gathered round the long dining table. There, Cicero is regaling them with the tale of Lumen’s arrest and his heroic rescue of Arnbjorn, and finally the Listener herself. He spends a few minutes describing Arnbjorn’s slaughter of the Thalmor soldiers in loving detail, and then he finally moves on to the death of Malrian himself.

It is strange to hear the story told by someone else, and rather than listen, Lumen focuses her attention on pouring a glass of wine and preparing herself for what’s to come. She isn’t exactly thrilled to be picked over by a pair of mages, but at least it’s by a pair of mages she trusts. It is a nice distraction, however. She doesn’t know how to deal with the myriad of emotions and memories that have beset her in the wake of Malrian’s death. A reprieve from them would be quite welcome.

Despite her sour mood, she does find comfort in the presence of her family. The way Arnbjorn smiles at Cicero’s boisterous greeting warms her heart. The smile is indulgent and not quite genuine, but the fact that he’s making an effort is rather sweet. Luka and Eola debate over what magics might be used on the collar in a way that would not cause harm to the Listener, while Nazir and Babette watch with unhidden interest. The only one who is not engaging in conversation or observing said conversations is Cyril. He, on the other hand, is staring at Lumen. Or rather, at the collar around her neck.

“What?” she snaps, the sound of her angry voice cutting through the revelry. “Do you like what you see?”

“No,” he says firmly, his voice thick with insult. “And your eagerness to jump to such conclusions does you little credit, Listener.”

“Cyril!” Eola hisses, hoping to shush her lover before he truly insults the Listener, but he is having none of it.

“I was looking at the collar because it made me remember something that happened a very long time ago,” he says, his voice sharp, but still polite. “But I believe I know what type of magic the Thalmor used to enchant that collar, and perhaps someone skilled in such magics could unlock it without causing you harm.”

“I’m listening,” Lumen says, feeling some of her earlier anger dissipate.

“I was there on the Night of Green Fire,” Cyril says, his words chilling Lumen to the bone. Of course she knows all about that night, despite not being there, and it being one hundred and sixty years ago. The Thalmor _loved_ that story. “I was close enough to feel the magic used by the Thalmor. I know its origin.”

“Wait,” Cicero interrupts. “What exactly is the Night of Green Fire? It sounds awfully familiar.”

“It happened one hundred and sixty years ago when Altmer dissidents fled to Sentinel, a kingdom in Hammerfell,” Lumen says, reciting the story with little emotion. It had been a part of her lessons as a child. “The Thalmor found them, and they utterly destroyed them. In fact, they had completely obliterated a portion of the city, killing all within. It was mages fighting mages. I’m surprised any part of Sentinel still stood after that.”

“I was not there for any noble reason,” Cyril admits, his eyes never leaving Lumen’s. “I was still young for a vampire, and I sought to prey on the refugees. The battle between the dissidents and the Thalmor broke out all around me, and I was lucky to escape with my life.”

Lumen shrugs. “I can’t judge you for needing to feed,” she says, just glad he isn’t associated with the Thalmor. “So tell me about the magic.”

“The Thalmor would like for all the world to believe they are as magically gifted as they are because of their pure bloodlines. This is only partially true. Some Thalmor will often use forbidden magic. A type of magic that comes from another plane, and carries a heavy price.”

“Oh!” Luka suddenly gasps. “It’s _Daedric_!”

“Precisely,” Cyril says, finally turning away from Lumen to glance at the young mage. “Although, I am uncertain as to which Daedra it comes from.”

“Well, we can cross Molag Bal off the list,” Babette chimes in. “We would be able to sense that easily.”

Lumen rubs her temples. Great. This is exactly what she needs. “So you’re telling me that this fucking collar is infused with illicit, Daedric spells?” she grumbles. “Luka, _please_ tell me you have some experience with Daedric magic.”

“I have dabbled, Miss Lumen,” the mage replies, coming around the table to inspect the collar. “But, as Cyril said, the price is quite high, and I only used a spell once.”

“So what’s the price?”

“Blood, usually,” Luka says. “Or one’s life force. Some say using Daedric magic chips away at one’s soul, until there is nothing left. But I think that might just be something nervous parents tell their children to scare them away from using such magic. You only use this type of magic if you wish to bind or harm.”

“You said you dabbled,” Lumen says, unable to hide her curiosity. “What did you do, exactly? Bind or harm?”

“Oh, dear. How do I put this politely?” Luka runs his hands through his hair, muttering to himself before launching into an explanation. “I used a spell crafted by followers of Mehrunes Dagon. I wasn’t sure what would happen when I cast it, and I certainly did not expect chains to unfurl from the very air itself. They had these serrated hooks on the end, all black and red, and glowy. Just like your armor! And, well… Um, let’s just say the person I used it on was disemboweled through his, er-- through his behind. By the hook. On the chain. It went in his-- well, _you know_. Like I said, I had no idea it would be so _messy_.”

“Will you teach Cicero this spell?” Cicero asks, practically bouncing out of his seat with excitement. “Please? _Please_?! Cicero needs to know it!”

“No!” Lumen shouts. Her voice is echoed by Nazir and Arnbjorn, and Cicero sinks back down in his chair to sulk. Lumen takes a moment to consider what such a scene might look like before she speaks again. “Luka, may I ask what this poor man did to you? I mean, _bravo_ for an excellent execution. But, still. It sounds very painful.”

“He cheated at cards,” he says distractedly, more concerned about inspecting the details of the collar than telling his own story. Which is a good thing, really. Because he doesn’t notice the mixed expressions of horror and fascination coming from his siblings. “I’m sorry, Miss Lumen. But I do not think I can open this collar. It is beyond what I am capable of, and I don’t want to attempt any spells because I don’t want to injure you, so…”

Lumen closes her eyes for a moment, doing her best to control herself. “Eola? Please tell me you have some ideas.”

“I’m a Daedra worshipper,” she explains patiently. “And a mage, but that doesn’t mean I use any spells crafted within the planes of Oblivion. For what it’s worth, the collar isn’t linked to Namira in any way. I would be able to sense that, and it probably wouldn’t be made of gold if it was.” The Breton begins to pace, tapping her chin as she thinks. “I’d say you could ask someone at the College of Winterhold for help, but such magic is forbidden so I think it would be a complete waste of your time. What you need is someone who specializes in this type of magic. But most people who do specialize in it tend to keep such talents a secret.”

“Hang on,” Cicero says, deciding to break his pouting session. “Sweet Lumen, you _do_ know someone who specializes in dark, forbidden magic.”

“Liadan,” she sighs. “Madanach’s Hagraven.”

“No, no,” Babette laughs. “She’s not his Hagraven. It’s more like he’s her human.”

“That’s all fine and good, but the Forsworn were very annoying the last time I tried to visit Madanach, and since I’ve thoroughly pissed Delphine off, I’m betting they’ll be even more reluctant to let me in their camp.”

“You cannot know that for certain,” Babette says. “If you want to speak to the Hagraven, then you’ll need to bring her an offering. Although, I do not know what one offers a Hagraven. But, I would think a personal favor from the Night Mother’s Listener might be enough to tempt her.”

“No,” Lumen snaps. “I am not going to be beholden to a fucking Hagraven!”

“Then the collar stays,” Babette says, lifting her tiny shoulders in a shrug. “Because I don’t know anyone else who might be skilled enough to remove it. I suppose you could hunt down Thalmor justiciars and torture them for information. But I wouldn’t trust them not to kill you in the process of removing the collar.”

“Damn it.” Lumen buries her head in her hands. She can’t exactly talk to Ulfric while she has a symbol of slavery clasped around her neck, and she certainly can’t face Alduin like this. She can’t expect anyone to take her seriously until it’s removed, and it’s beginning to look like Liadan truly is her only choice.

“Lumen?” Cicero wraps his arms around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Cicero thinks visiting the Forsworn is a good idea, actually. As I recall, the Hagraven seemed to like you. And since the Imperial Legion wants to hang you for treason, it wouldn’t hurt to make nice with the Forsworn. You can use all the help you can get at this point.”

“All right,” she says, finally giving in. “We leave in a day.”

* * *

Karthspire looks much like it did the last time Lumen was there. A tall, sturdy stockade stands as a barrier between the outside world and the hundreds of Forsworn within. The fence is lined with guard posts, which are outfitted with guards that look on curiously at the group of assassins.

“Well, well,” comes a familiar, very annoying, voice. “Just couldn’t stay away from me, could you?”

Lumen glares up at the young guard that gave her so much grief last time. Cicero just heaves a resigned sigh, while Luka and Arnbjorn look on in curiosity. “I’m here to request an audience with Madanach,” she says, trying to be as polite as possible. “It’s an urgent matter.”

“Oh, _it is_ , is it?” he laughs. “Is it truly urgent, or are you just claiming as such because you’ve come to ask a favor?”

“It is true that I have come to ask a favor,” she reluctantly admits. “But I do not expect something for nothing. I can pay for whatever help Madanach is willing to offer.”

“Well, then! What exactly is this favor, my little, elven beauty?” The guard offers her a winning smile, which only serves to annoy her further. “And, most importantly, what do you plan to offer as payment?”

“That is between Madanach and I!” Lumen snaps, balling her hands into fists. “So stop being a shit and let me in!”

The guard throws back his head and laughs loudly. “And what will you give me if I let you in? Surely I cannot be expected to do something and receive nothing in turn!”

“Oh, for the love of--” Lumen grumbles to herself before finally relenting. “Fine! _Fine_. What do you want?”

“A kiss!”

“What?” Lumen glances at her companions. Cicero merely shrugs, while Arnbjorn just looks annoyed-- which is normal, really. But Luka looks completely scandalized.

“How very rude!” he snaps, squaring his shoulders as he faces off with the guard. “I don’t think Miss Lumen even likes you! Why would she want to kiss you?”

“Luka, it’s fine,” Lumen says, trying to calm the young mage before he does something rash. “I’ve kissed worse than him.” She turns back to the guard. “Where am I to kiss you, exactly? I cannot agree to such a vague request.”

“Smart woman,” he says, grinning down at her. “Perhaps I should let you in. It seems that we have much to talk about.”

With that, the two guards standing at the gate roll their eyes and mutter _‘finally’_ before pulling the gates open for the assassins. Inside, the camp is bustling with noise. The people within are too focused on going about their daily business to notice the odd group entering their camp.

“So, Lumen is it?” the guard asks. “My name is Faolán.”

“I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’d be lying,” she says, sneering at the guard.

Faolán grins at her, and offers her his hand. “It seems as if we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” he says, his thick, Breton brogue more pleasant now that he isn’t yelling at her from atop a lookout post. “But if I am lucky, perhaps I’ll have you off your feet by this evening.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Lumen snarls, deciding she’s had enough of the guard’s behavior. “Luka! Do you still know that disembowelment spell? I’d like a demonstration.”

“Woah! No one is disemboweling anyone,” Uraccen says, his sudden appearance a welcome sight. “Faolán, return to your duties and stop harassing our guest. As for you, Lumen, what exactly are you doing here? We weren’t expecting to see you back after we heard about your little spat with Delphine.”

Lumen watches as Faolán sulks and returns to his post before turning her attention to Uraccen. “We didn’t have a spat. She asked me to do something ridiculous and I refused. That is all.”

“Just so.”

“My business isn’t with Delphine,” she sighs. “I told the guard my business is with Madanach, but that’s not entirely true. I need to speak with Liadan. It’s important.”

Uraccen’s brows shoot up at the mention of their resident Hagraven’s name. “What business could you possibly have with Liadan?” he gasps, before collecting himself. “The only time we allow anyone to speak with her is when she summons them. You can’t just request an audience with a Hagraven! But-- you are the Listener, so she might make a concession for you. Either way, you will have to speak to Madanach first. He is the only one of us who communes with her on a regular basis.”

He motions for the assassins to follow him through the crowded, busy camp. But when they reach the well guarded platform that leads to Madanach’s tent, he stops them. “A moment,” he murmurs, before vanishing into Madanach’s tent. Presumably to tell him about his unexpected visitors and their very odd request. After a few minutes of tense silence, Uraccen returns and says, “He will only speak to you, Listener. Madanach would not appreciate being surrounded by assassins, even if they mean him no harm. I’m sure you understand.”

“That’s fine,” she says, although it’s not entirely true. She’s still on the fence about whether or not she can really trust the King in Rags. But she needs his help and she has no choice, so after giving her companions orders to stay nearby, she enters Madanach’s tent.

“It’s not often that an outsider requests audience with a Hagraven,” Madanach says without preamble. There is an odd look in his eyes that could either be anger or amusement, and Lumen isn’t sure what’s worse. “And I wonder, Listener, if you’re brave or just stupid.”

“I’m desperate, actually,” she says tersely as she motions to the collar. “It’s locked by some Daedric magic used by the Thalmor. Some of the most skilled mages I know have looked at it, and they don’t know how to get it open-- not without potentially frying me in the process, anyway. So I figured if anyone would know what to do, it would be Liadan.”

Madanach takes one look at the collar and _laughs_. “And what makes you think she’ll help you?”

“I _don’t_ think she’ll help me,” Lumen sighs. “But I have no one else to ask, and I don’t want to go the rest of my life with this thing around my neck.”

“When asking a favor of a Hagraven, it’s considered rude to do so without offering a gift,” he says, still grinning at her. “And by that extent, you should offer me something as well.”

“What does she want?” she asks, then, against her better judgment she adds, “And what do you want?”

“I don’t know what she wants, but I can ask her,” he says, his grin growing wider as he steps even closer to her, and while he’s not a tall man, he certainly is intimidating. “As for what I want, well, that’s a very open-ended question, Listener. A lesser man would take advantage.”

Lumen frowns at him, none too pleased about what he’s implying. “But you won’t?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, finally backing off. “All I want from you is information. You’ve been consorting with the jarls, getting arrested, and so on. I just want to know what you know. So fill me in, and I will speak to Liadan on your behalf.”

“You’re going to be sorely disappointed. Just because I’ve been begging Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius to get along doesn’t mean I know anything.”

“You surely know more than I,” he says, folding his arms across his broad chest. “So talk.”

“All I know is that Ulfric is an insufferable bastard, and Tullius is no better! Tullius threw me in jail for the murder of the emperor--”

“Which you did commit. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming, girl.”

“Oh, shut up,” she snarls, much to his amusement. “I didn’t think I left any witnesses behind.”

“So, is it safe to assume your little peace conference is off?” He takes a seat at a small table, and motions for Lumen to do the same. “Something tells me Tullius won’t feel like negotiating once he learns you’ve escaped.”

“I don’t know, he and the First Emissary seemed genuinely interested in the conference,” she says, not looking at him. “I assume their interest has far more to do with the fact that Ulfric will be there, than any real desire for peace.”

“I daresay you are correct,” he says. “And if both you and Ulfric happen to be there-- well, that would just be too easy for them, wouldn’t it? You two have a lot in common. He killed the high king, and you killed the emperor. They would hang you both at the same time just to prove a point. Imagine what a spectacle that would be. The Kingslayer and the Dragonborn; their corpses swinging side-by-side in the breeze.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” she asks, utterly exasperated. “Sit around and twiddle my thumbs, and wait for the world to end?”

Madanach is quiet for a moment, which is a rare occurrence. Rather than speak, he pours a glass of a mysterious, clear liquid, and pushes it toward her before pouring one for himself. “I don’t think Tullius would be foolish enough to do anything to you of Ulfric while you're at High Hrothgar. Many of his soldiers are Nords, and he would be stabbing himself in the foot if he spilled blood on sacred ground,” he says slowly, before taking a drink. “That doesn’t mean he won’t try to capture you on the road, and if he succeeds that would be a problem for me considering I am rooting for your survival. The end of the world would seriously impede on my plans.”

“Tullius is not my concern,” she says quietly, her fingernails drumming against the glass. “I killed the First Emissary Elenwen’s brother, and she will have no qualms about spilling blood on sacred ground.”

“You’re just making friends all over, aren’t you?” He shakes his head and downs the rest of his drink in one gulp. “You want my advice?” he asks, his voice made more rough by the alcohol. “Talk to Ulfric. Have your conference. Utilize what you have at your disposal, which just happens to be the entirety of the Dark Brotherhood. Use your assassins! They can scout ahead, keep their eyes out for danger, and send you a warning if any is coming. Really, girl. I shouldn’t have to spell this out for you.”

“I cannot exploit the Dark Brotherhood’s resources for my own personal gain,” she snaps. But it’s not for her personal gain, is it? If the world ends, then the Night Mother ends, and Lumen seriously doubts that is a part of Sithis’ plans.

“Then ask for volunteers,” he suggests. “Surely your sadistic, little family would be willing to protect you.”

“I’m sure they would,” she says, feeling a little uneasy. “All right, I suppose I will continue with my plans to hold the conference. It’s not as if I have much of a choice.”

“Good, girl,” he says, smirking at her resulting frown. “And while you're at it, do me a favor and keep me informed. I want to know everything that’s transpiring, even if you think it’s unimportant. I need to know.”

“I’m not one of your agents, you know.”

“I know that, Listener. But am I wrong to assume that we’re friends?”

“Of a sort,” she says, sounding decidedly unfriendly at the moment.

“We have a friendly relationship, at the very least. And as long as you continue to scratch my back, I’ll be more than happy to scratch yours.” He stands up and turns away from her to sift through some papers, which is a sign that their conversation is over. “Now you just scamper back to your little friends. I’ll have Uraccen set you up with some tents and dinner, it may take some time to convince Liadan to speak with you. She does not like to be interrupted, and she likes doing favors even less.”

Lumen recognises the dismissal, and she makes to leave the tent, but she pauses just before she reaches the flaps. “Thank you, Madanach,” she says suddenly.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he grumbles goodnaturedly. “I haven’t done anything.”

“I appreciate that you are willing to speak with Liadan on my behalf,” she says, glancing at him. “And I would be grateful if you didn’t tell Delphine that I am here. I don’t want to put up with her right now.”

“I won’t tell her,” he says, grinning to himself. “But that woman has eyes everywhere. My people happen to like her, as do I. So I wouldn't be surprised if she already knows you’re here.”

Lumen exits the tent, heaving a sigh and hoping against hope that she doesn’t have to contend with Delphine.

* * *

Once Lumen finishes speaking with Madanach, Uraccen leads the four assassins to a small camp just on the edge of Karthspire. There are tents made of animal skins placed around a blazing fire, along with an assortment of fur pelts to choose from if the fire is not enough to keep them warm. The Forsworn may run around half naked and worship strange, mysterious gods, but they certainly know how to make their guests feel at home.

“This campsite is a bit far off from the main camp, but I thought you might appreciate the privacy,” Uraccen says. “Do you need anything at the moment?”

“No,” Lumen says, as she sits down in front of the fire. “Thank you, but we’re fine for now.”

“Very well, I’ll have dinner brought up when it’s ready,” he says, before turning on his heel and leaving the assassins all alone.

“Miss Lumen, would it be alright if I explored the camp?” Luka asks, his eyes wide and hopeful. “I won’t get into trouble, I promise! I just want to look around.”

“That’s fine,” Lumen says, although she would prefer to keep her brothers nearby, she knows how tenacious Luka can be if he really wants something and is subsequently denied. “Come back soon, though.”

“I will!”

“Cicero will go, too. He wants to hear more about these Daedric spells that Luka knows so much about,” The Keeper says, although Lumen knows he’s more eager to get a chance to flirt rather than learning about magic. “Cicero can’t help but wonder if Luka knows any naughty spells.”

“Magic is _not_ to be used in such ways!” Luka says, completely aghast at the thought.

“It isn’t?” Cicero asks. “Then you have surely been missing out. Perhaps Cicero should tell you about the _other_ uses for fire and ice spells, hmm? Or maybe he should demonstrate?”

Lumen watches them go. Cicero curls his arm around Luka’s, which surprises the blushing mage so much that he trips over his own feet, and would have fallen if Cicero hadn’t been there to steady him.

“You two shouldn’t tease him so much,” Arnbjorn says, and after some internal debating, he finally sits down next to Lumen. “It’s wrong to give him hope where there is none.”

“What in Oblivion are you talking about?”

“Don’t play coy with me, you know exactly what I am talking about.”

“Coy?” she snaps, but before she can truly give into her annoyance she notices the look in his eyes. He’s not angry, so much as he’s hurt. But for the life of her, she cannot understand why. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I get the feeling this is less about Luka and Cicero, and more about you and me.”

To her pleasure, Arnbjorn does look suitably guilty. “It is,” he sighs. “I’ve been thinking, and I’m a bit confused.”

Lumen moves so that she’s sitting right in front of him, and so he cannot avoid looking at her. “Explain,” she says, her voice sharper than she means it to be, but it is difficult to speak when her chest feels so tight.

“I care about you,” he says, although the pitch of his voice would suggest otherwise. “More than I should, honestly. But I don’t understand what you want with me. I don’t know what I thought would happen after Blackreach, but I need to know what you’re thinking. Because if nothing else is going to happen between us, I’d rather know than be left wondering.”

It takes all of her self-control not to gape at him. Of all the things that could be bothering the stoic Nord, she didn’t imagine he would be feeling insecure. “I-- well-- do you _want_ something more?” she stammers, not knowing what to say. “To be fair, we’ve all been pretty busy. I haven’t even had sex in--”

“This isn’t about sex,” he snaps, his shoulders tensing. Clearly, Arnbjorn does not deal with feelings of insecurity very well. “What I want is something more than that. I don’t want to be your bit on the side. I don’t want you sneaking in my bed, only to crawl back to him when you’re done with me. I don’t want to be _used_.”

Lumen takes a deep breath, allowing herself a moment to think. She had no idea Arnbjorn was so sensitive. But the more that she thinks about it, the more she realizes she’s treated him rather unfairly. If it’s not about sex, then it’s about simple affection. When it comes to sharing quarters, be it a bed or a bedroll, she often sleeps with Cicero, and Arnbjorn is left all alone.

“Are you asking me to choose?” she asks, a little terrified of the answer.

Arnbjorn swallows hard and looks away. “No,” he says roughly. “I would never ask you to choose.”

“Then what are you asking for, exactly?”

He is quiet for a few heartbeats, and he takes a deep, steadying breath before he speaks again. “I want you to treat me as you would treat him,” he says, finally chancing a glance in her direction. “Stop putting up barriers. You don’t have to keep me at arm's length.”

“I can do that,” she says softly. “And for what it’s worth, I am sorry. I didn’t realize how you felt, but that’s not entirely my fault considering you’ve been brooding about this for weeks. Why didn’t you just say something?”

“You’re terrible at apologizing,” Arnbjorn says, a smile finally gracing his lips. “I know I should have said something earlier, but it just never seemed like the right time to bring it up.”

“Well, if this is your way of asking to cuddle, it’s a little weird,” she says. “Your technique could use some work.”

“Quiet,” he says, finally reaching out to her and pulling her close. The warmth of his body radiates through his leather armor, and Lumen finds it surprisingly easy to relax against him. She used to fear affection, but a year with Cicero has taught her to enjoy it when she can. It is a little weird coming from Arnbjorn, and she supposes it’s just weird because it’s new. But despite the strange, new experience, she has to admit that it _is_ rather nice. It’s amazing how something as simple as a hug or a peck on the cheek can lift one’s mood, and she wonders how long Arnbjorn has been needing this. Since before Astrid died, surely. Thier relationship was already on the rocks by the time Lumen joined the Dark Brotherhood.

“You can share a tent with me tonight,” she says, feeling a bit silly for sounding so damn shy. “Um, if you want to, that is. Cicero won’t mind bunking with Luka, he’s probably itching for another chance to get him worked up.”

“I was being serious when I said it was cruel to lead him on,” he says, one hand idly playing with her hair.

“Cicero isn’t leading him on,” she says. “And Luka knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s not as innocent as you think he is.”

“And you’re not jealous?” he asks, sounding doubtful. “Not at all?”

“No,” she says, turning to look at him. “He doesn’t belong to me, and it’s not as if him sleeping with someone else would change anything between us. I don’t feel threatened, so what’s there to be jealous of?”

“That’s a different way of looking at things,” he admits.

“I suppose,” she says, pressing a bit closer to him. “And you’re not allowed to get jealous, by the way. If something is bothering you, then you have to talk to me. I’ll not put up with a sulky, jealous werewolf.”

“Werewolves don’t get jealous,” he grumbles. “And we don’t sulk. It’s physically impossible.”

“Yeah, right,” she laughs, but the laugh turns into a rather embarrassing squeak when he tightens his grip on her.

“It isn’t wise to tease a werewolf,” he says, his lips brushing dangerously close to hers. “Especially when he has you in his grasp.”

Lumen hesitates for a moment, reluctant to initiate anything serious between herself and either of her lovers as long as she has the collar around her neck. She just cannot shake the shameful image of the naked, collared slave from her mind. While she’s never seen the slave markets of Alinor or Valenwood, she’s seen drawings and her imagination is vivid enough to provide her with a decent idea. Nude, collared slaves standing on display, and ready to serve their new master’s whim -- whatever the whim may be. She cannot stand for either of them to see her like that.

But... There’s no harm in a simple kiss, is there? Surely not. With her mind made up, she closes the distance between them, pleased to find Arnbjorn’s lips perfectly willing and pliant beneath her own. Despite all her worries, it is easy to lose herself in the moment. His warm breath ghosting along her cheek, and his beard tickling her chin. Even more enjoyable are the strong hands traveling down her body and gripping her bottom, then pulling her forward to straddle his lap.

“I hate to interrupt,” comes a gravelly voice. “But Liadan has named her price.”

They break apart, and Lumen turns to see a highly amused Madanach watching her and Arnbjorn. “That was quick,” she stammers, feeling a little lightheaded and not at all prepared for conversation just yet. “What is it?”

“She’s wanting something from your werewolf, actually,” he says, grinning wickedly. “Can you guess what it is?”

“Blood,” Arnbjorn growls, releasing his grip on Lumen. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Exactly how much blood are we talking about?” she asks. “I’ll not put him in danger.”

“Oh, only a little bit,” Madanach says. “He’ll be fine after a day of rest, I promise.”

“So if I give her my blood, she’ll remove the collar?” Arnbjorn watches Madanach, it’s almost as if he expects the Forsworn king to trick them.

“That’s right,” he nods. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Nord. Liadan knows what she’s doing, and your Listener will be right there beside you. It’s not every day a healthy, living werewolf comes into our camp, and Liadan wouldn’t squander this opportunity by tricking you. She just needs your blood for a potion. She won’t take much, and she won’t waste it.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

“Arnbjorn, you don’t have to--”

He puts a finger to her lips, silencing her. “Come on, tidbit. Let’s get that collar off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you for all the wonderful feedback on the last chapter!! I haven’t got back to everyone yet, but I love and cherish every comment! Thanks for sticking with this story for so long! :D
> 
> I know many of you are looking forward to something more happening between Luka and Cicero. No worries! I plan to focus on them in a couple chapters. Arnbjorn was being a bit of a marshmallow so he kind of took over the last bit of this chapter. I really like the ‘sensitive tough guy’ trope. So I couldn’t help myself. :P


	39. Pulling the Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME TO SMUTLAND! T-shirts are available in the gift shop! XD 
> 
> Right, I know I said there wasn’t going to be much more smut in the fic. But I guess I lied. I didn’t mean to! I just really like writing smut... Anyway, warnings for: m/f smut featuring a Dom!Cicero, because what Dark Brotherhood fic is complete without that?
> 
> Also there is a bloodletting scene in the beginning of the chapter (completely unrelated to the smut btw.) So be mindful of that if that is a squick.

Karthspire is notably colder where Liadan’s camp is set up. Whether it be from magic or the lay of the land, Lumen does not know. What she does know is that she is entirely uncomfortable with the thought of Arnbjorn giving his blood to the hagraven. She’s the one asking for a favor, and she should be the one to pay the price, not him.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers to Arnbjorn, hoping Madanach doesn’t overhear. “We can find another way.”

“You’re making this into a bigger issue than it is, tidbit,” comes his gruff reply. “It’s just blood.”

“ _Just_ blood?” she snaps. “For what it’s worth, I would prefer it if your blood remained inside your body.”

“So would I. But if I have to bleed in order for you to be free of that collar, then it’s a small price to pay.”

She falls quiet at that, not knowing what to say, and knowing there’s no rebuttal she can offer. Arguing further might be seen as a terrible insult to Arnbjorn, and she doesn’t want to come off as ungrateful. Cicero would do the very same for her. But that thought brings her little comfort, only guilt. Such loyal comrades surely deserve better than her.

“Liadan is waiting,” Madanach says, his arms folded across his bare chest and his brow furrowed in a scowl. “You two can resume your flirting later.”

“It’s called _fretting_ , old man. I’m hardly flirting.” Lumen walks past Madanach to approach the hagraven, who is waiting patiently next to a stone altar.

“Listener,” she inclines her head by way of greeting. “You have changed so much since we last spoke.”

“A lot’s happened,” Lumen says, shifting nervously from foot to foot. How is one supposed to greet a hagraven? “I assume Madanach told you about my little problem.”

“That he did, and I think I can help you.” She begins to circle around Lumen, tracing a taloned finger along the edge of the collar. It begins to glow with an eerie purple light as Liadan traces the runes with her claw, murmuring something in an unknown language. 

Arnbjorn says nothing, he only watches with an openly nervous expression on his face. Great. That’s comforting. Lumen is used to him being angry, or maybe even _sort of_ happy, but fear is not something she likes to see on the strong Nord. She wasn’t nervous before, but she is now.

“I find it curious that the collar is not linked to Molag Bal,” Liadan muses. “Considering he is obsessed domination and enslavement, one would think his magic would take perfectly to a slave collar. But he is not who the Thalmor have chosen to invoke.”

“Do you know who’s magic it’s linked to?” Lumen asks, feeling increasingly nervous. “And, more importantly, can you remove it?”

“I do,” the hagraven’s mouth pulls back into a toothy grin. “This particular holding spell has the traits of certain spells created by followers of Mephala. I am a little surprised to see such magic employed by the Thalmor, but I suppose it makes sense. They do tend to meddle in the affairs of humans, and undoubtedly the Webspinner has been enjoying the show.”

Lumen dearly wishes her childhood education had taught her a little more about the Daedric Princes, but Thalmor education has a very narrow-minded purpose, and learning about the religions and cultures of ‘lesser peoples’ is deemed unnecessary. “I’m a little embarrassed to say that I don’t know who or what Mephala is, but I guess I don’t care as long as you can get this thing off.”

“You would do well to educate yourself in such matters, Listener,” Liadan chides, sounding more like a tired, mother hen, than a creature created by dark magic. “Ignorance can be deadly.”

Lumen is tempted to tell the hagraven that she is deadly as well, but such boasting would probably not be well received. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. “You never answered me when I asked if you could remove the collar.”

“I don’t know the exact spell that was used, but I believe I will be able to nullify the spells properties long enough to remove it from your neck. But first, we should discuss the matter of my payment.”

“You’ll get your payment,” Arnbjorn snarls, finally breaking his uncomfortable silence. “Free her first.”

“Please,” Lumen suddenly adds, not wishing to offend the hag with bad manners.

To their surprise, Liadan actually laughs. Although it sounds more like a pained wheeze than a sound of mirth. “So untrusting,” she murmurs. “So typical of a Nord.” Liadan places the palms of her bird-like hands on either side of the collar. “All right, Listener. I trust you and your comrade to make good on our deal, so I will free you first. But you would do well to remember that the trust of a hag is hard won, and I only trust you because you are the Night Mother’s daughter.”

The magic begins as a soft hum but quickly escalates into a terrible, reverberating sound that hurts Lumen’s ears. She never liked magic, and having it cast so close to her head is mildly terrifying, but so is the thought of living out her days with a slave collar clasped around her neck. The thrumming of Liadan’s magic is overwhelming her senses, and she grits her teeth to keep them from chattering. She refuses to pull away, no matter how much she wants to. Her desire to be rid of the collar overriding all sense of self preservation. 

Then, in a matter of moments, the humming stops, and the collar slips from her neck, clattering on the hard stone between her and the hagraven. The runes etched within the collar blaze with purple light, and Lumen jumps when the collar suddenly snaps back together.

“Good thing that didn’t happen when it was halfway off your neck,” the hag says, breathing a strange rasping laugh as she does. “Do you mind if I keep the collar, Listener? I would like to study it.”

“You can have it,” she says, rubbing her blessedly bare neck. “Do you still need Arnbjorn’s blood? Or is the collar payment enough?”

Liadan snorts. “I see that my request for your wolf’s blood has agitated you,” she says as she plucks the collar from the ground to inspect it. “I am not using his blood for anything nefarious. There are a great many uses for the blood of a werewolf, and I don’t know many who would be so tame in the presence of a hagraven. Especially a wolf from his particular pack.”

“Are all the Companions werewolves?” Lumen asks, her curiosity piqued. Long ago, Arnbjorn told her that his father is a werewolf. But she did not think that particular curse extended to the rest of his old family until the hagraven mentioned his _pack_.

Arnbjorn grimaces at the mention of his relation to the Companions. “Not all of them,” he says. “Only a few are chosen, and it’s not exactly something they like to advertise.”

Lumen has a dozen more questions she’d love to ask him, but she supposes she’ll have time to ask him about the Companions later on. “So how much of his blood do you plan to take?” she asks, not bothering to mask her annoyance with the hag’s request. “I appreciate your assistance in removing the collar, but I can’t allow you to do anything that would put his life in danger.”

To her surprise, the hag smiles, revealing rows of pointed teeth. “You do not have to be so protective, Listener,” she says. “I only mean to collect a few vials-- or, rather, I’m going to have _you_ collect a few vials.”

“Why me?” 

“I have few regrets about ascending, but these talons are rather cumbersome when I need to do something that requires extreme precision,” she explains, and after she places the collar in a chest of safekeeping, she waves Lumen and Arnbjorn closer to the small campfire. “You will do fine, Listener. I will guide you.”

To say that she feels uncertain would be the understatement of the era, but Arnbjorn does not seem to feel the same apprehension as she. Because he is settling down near the fire and making himself comfortable for what is likely to be a very uncomfortable procedure.

“Sit down, tidbit,” he grumbles. “I’d like to do this as quickly as possible.”

Rather than inquire about his sudden urgency, Lumen just heaves a resigned sigh and kneels down beside him. The hag smiles and hands her a small, ornately carved box, which is filled with various instruments for bloodletting. Lumen has seen them before. Healers often carry the tiny knives and hollow needles on their person. But even though she’s seen them, she’s certainly never used them.

Liadan hands her a bit of rope and says, “Tie this around his upper arm, it will help.”

“You know, Cicero would really enjoy this,” Lumen murmurs, and she carefully ties a tourniquet around his arm, her thumb drifting down to the inside of his elbow to feel for a vein. “I wonder where he is."

“I’m glad he’s not here to witness this,” Arnbjorn says, sounding a bit irritated. “I’d be more likely to lose my entire arm, rather than a few drops of blood.”

“Your jester and his pet have been running rampant around my camp,” Madanach grouses. He’d been so quiet, Lumen had forgotten he was there. “I ordered them back to your camp before I came to fetch you, but they were taking their sweet time in getting there.”

“I’m afraid to ask what they were doing,” Lumen says, hoping Cicero and Luka don’t end up on the wrong side of a fire spell.

“They were being a nuisance,” Madanch snaps. “And I would appreciate it if you tightened the leash on those two while they are in my camp.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lumen says tersely, trying not to tense up at his casual use of ‘pet’ and ‘leash’. Rather than brood, she turns to focus to Arnbjorn. “I feel the vein, and I think I can hit it on one try. Are you ready?”

Arnbjorn nods, and Lumen takes a deep breath to steel herself before pressing the small knife against his skin. The skin parts easily, and his blood begins to run down his arm in streaks of crimson. She quickly grabs one of the vials, which is equipped with a brass channel to funnel the blood. Arnbjorn blows out a breath when she rubs her thumb above the vein, attempting to milk as much blood out as she can. She knows it hurts, but he is not one to complain about such a trivial wound.

Her stomach churns at the sight of Arnbjorn’s blood. Blood that _she_ has drawn. It goes against everything she is supposed to stand for. She is the Listener, and she should do no harm to her siblings. Even though he consented to this, it still feels so wrong. She is to lead her family, not mistreat them. But here she is, corking a vial full of her brother’s blood and handing it to Liadan, and then grabbing another to continue the task.

“It looks like you do not need my guidance, after all,” Liadan comments. A weak, ice spell bursts from her fingertips when she grabs the vial, the glass fogging over as frost forms across it. At Lumen’s confused expression, she explains, “It’s to keep it fresh. If the blood rots then it will be of no use to me.”

“You do seem to know what you’re doing.” Madanach narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You don’t really strike me as the type of person who would be familiar with a healer’s tools.”

“I’m not familiar at all,” Lumen grouses. “But I’m not a complete idiot, either.”

Madanach laughs at her obvious irritation. “And as to your knowledge of how to get the most blood out of a human body?” he asks. “Do I want to know the answer to that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks. “I’ve killed a lot of people. Some of them very, very slowly. You learn a thing or two about how the body works after you’ve rooted around in a few.”

“That’s terrifying,” Madanach laughs. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Lumen doesn’t respond to that. Instead, she hands the last vial to Liadan and begins wrapping Arnbjorn’s arm in a bandage, pressing her hand to the inside of his elbow to stem the flow of blood. Her stomach is still in knots. The Forsworn are up to something. That’s for damn sure. Liadan agreed to remove the collar too easily, and then her assurances that she wasn’t doing anything nefarious with Arnbjorn’s blood was just as damning. If the Forsworn warriors will willingly sacrifice themselves to become Briarhearts, then it stands to reason that some would volunteer to take the blood and become werewolves. Although, she does not know why Madanach would want werewolves in his camp considering how uneasy he is around Arnbjorn.

Only time will tell, and she just hopes she’s wrong. Skyrim has enough trouble without a pack of Forsworn werewolves running across the countryside.

* * *

Lumen walks along the riverbank, far from the camp, but close enough to still be safe from bandits or wild animals. Arnbjorn returned to their campsite once Liadan was finished with them, and while her brothers were quite happy to see her freed, she was in need of some time alone. Her mind is flitting from one thought to the next, never stopping, and never allowing her a moment’s peace. There’s simply too much to think about. 

“There you are,” comes Cicero’s voice, and Lumen turns to see him emerge from the shadows of the forest. “You should not be out here all by yourself, sweet Lumen.”

“I think I’m safe here,” she says, turning back to look out over the water. “Sorry I didn’t return to camp, but I just needed to be alone so I could think.”

“Ah, Cicero will leave you be, then,” he says, and Lumen cannot ignore the twinge of pain in his voice. 

“Don’t go,” she says quickly. “I don’t mind your company.”

The smallest of smiles appears on his lips, and he practically skips toward her now that permission has been given. “Tell Cicero what is wrong, sweetness. Perhaps he can help,” he says, as he slides his arms around her waist and gazes up at her. 

“I was arrested for the murder of the emperor, as you very well know,” she begins, hesitating for only a moment before all her worries come tumbling out. “News travels fast in Skyrim. I’m sure everyone thinks I am a criminal-- which wouldn’t be wrong, but it’s certainly inconvenient. Ulfric may not even agree to talk to me now. And what about the peace council? Will any of the jarls even listen to what I have to say?”

“You are a suspect in the emperor’s murder,” he says, sounding mildly annoyed that she did not come to this conclusion all on her own. “They did not formally charge you with a crime. Besides, you can always say that it’s a rumor concocted by the Thalmor to destroy your credibility. Turn it into a scandal. Cicero is sure Ulfric will believe you if you play your part well.”

“You really think so?”

“It is no secret that Ulfric loves a good story,” Cicero says. “And you are a good liar when you want to be.”

“But--”

“Stop worrying so much,” he says firmly, which is a bit hypocritical coming from someone who worries constantly. “It will get you nowhere. You cannot know what will happen until it happens. It is out of your hands, sweetness. Especially right now. Tomorrow we will travel to Windhelm and speak with Ulfric, but for tonight--” he pauses, tilting his head and smirking up at her. “For tonight, sweet Listener, I’m afraid you are _mine_.”

She allows herself a brief moment of surprise before returning the smile. “Am I now?” she asks, her mind eager to play whatever game he is concocting, and her body overly eager to be touched. 

“You are,” he purrs, backing her up against a nearby tree. One hand grips her jaw, forcing her to look at him, while the other presses firmly between her breasts, holding her still. “You are in a fair bit of trouble, sweet Listener. Running off to deal with that Hagraven without Cicero there to protect you, and your poor, worried Cicero finds you out here, away from the protection of the camp!”

“I wasn’t alone,” she says, desperately trying to control her breathing, even though she knows he can feel the frantic beating of her heart. She has rarely seen him like this, and it’s exhilarating, if a little terrifying. Back when she was just an initiate he seemed more forceful and dominating, but that behavior fell to the wayside when she was named Listener. “Arnbjorn went with me.”

“I do not care,” he growls, sending a little shiver down her spine. “You cannot simply vanish into the night after all that’s happened. It is giving Cicero wrinkles! I even found a grey hair!”

“What is it you want from me?” she asks, trying not to laugh at his complaints. 

His brushes his thumb just beneath her lower lip, his grin softening into something more genuine and loving. “Do you trust your Cicero?”

“With my life,” she whispers, reveling in the brief look of unadulterated happiness that flickers across his features before his mask is back in place.

“Then, in that case, Cicero demands satisfaction.” That is all the warning she has before he yanks her tunic open. The fabric rips easily, and tiny buttons rain down to the mossy ground. He tugs her breastband down just enough to expose her breasts to the chilly air. Cicero runs his hands over her breasts, his fingers pinching one nipple while his teeth graze the other.

“Someone might see,” she gasps weakly, too thrilled with the moment to truly care, but she would be remiss if she didn’t put up a bit of a fight. It isn’t in her nature to submit so easily, but her curiosity as to what Cicero might do is winning out against her usual need for control.

“That is half the fun, is it not?” He pushes the remnants of her tunic off her shoulders and down to her elbows, leaving her arms confined in the fabric. One good tug and she would be free, but at the moment she has no desire for it. “The camp is not too far away, and someone might come looking for us. Ah, and then there is the road just across the river. Imagine what a sight you would be for some weary traveler,” he murmurs, his voice dropping low as her unties her breeches, tugging them down her hips, just enough to give him access to her sex. Lumen bites her lip when he slides his fingers between her legs, and his grin grows wider and more menacing when he finds her already wet.

She leans back against the smooth bark of the tree. The thrill of possibly getting caught, along with being completely at Cicero’s mercy is making her delightfully light headed. The skilled fingers stroking her slit are merely the icing on the cake. She angles her hips, hoping to guide his fingers to her clit, but he chuckles at her weak attempts to take what hasn’t been offered.

“Perhaps it would be a blessing if we were seen,” Cicero says, one hand lazily palming her breast, while the other teases her between her legs. “Rumors of your arrest would be forgotten amidst newer, more salacious rumors of you rutting in the woods.”

“Cicero!” she gasps, his teasing putting her on edge. He chuckles, pressing his body closer to hers, the hard ridge of his confined erection grinding against her thigh. “Just fuck me already, that cannot be comfortable.”

“Oh, it isn’t,” he says, nipping at her jaw. “But I am not finished with you.”

He yanks her away from the tree, leading her a few paces away to a nearby log. Its surface is smooth, just like the rest of the trees in the Birch forest. But Cicero, thoughtful as ever, removes his jacket and tosses it over the log before pushing Lumen to her knees. He is gentle in his control, slowly guiding her to kneel on the soft, mossy ground, her torso resting against the smooth, velvet of his motley.

“Comfortable?”

Lumen has to think about how to answer that question. Her position is not uncomfortable or awkward, but her arms are still confined within her shirt, and her legs bound by the trousers he pulled down to her knees. “Somewhat,” she answers, giving into a shiver when his thumb pushes inside her opening, and his fingers find her clit. She can’t help but whimper when he begins to stroke, the long awaited friction feeling _wonderful_ after being denied for so long. Despite how good his fingers feel, Cicero is familiar enough with her body to know that his slow strokes are not enough to get her off, and Lumen cannot possibly guess what else he requires of her.

“Talk to me, sweetness,” he murmurs, using his free hand to rub her back. “Tell Cicero how you are feeling.”

“Frustrated,” she snarls, as the throbbing ache between her legs grows more intense with each stroke. “You are _killing_ me.”

He does not respond to her complaints, he just continues his ministrations. His thumb filling her just enough to relive some of the ache of needing to be fucked, and the two fingers stroking her clit in a lazy back-and-forth motion. “When you were bound by that wretched collar you barely wanted to be touched,” he says slowly, as if he is collecting his thoughts. “You were ashamed. But here, Cicero has bound you, and he wonders how you are feeling about it.”

That gives her pause, and rather than argue as she is wont to do, she gives herself a moment to think. “I feel fine,” she says, her answer sounding more like a question due to her uncertainty. “I allowed this, and I trust you. I felt weak then, but I don’t now. It’s different--” her breath catches when his fingers finally start to move in that quick, circular motion that will bring her to her peak. 

“You are not weak. Not then, and certainly not now,” he says, his voice growing husky. “There is strength in willing submission. To bend without breaking. You are not broken, sweet Lumen. You never were.”

She has little time to think on his words. His unerring faith in her sends a bolt of heat through her chest. There is a crushing sensation around her heart and she isn’t sure what to call it but it feels like the sweetest ache she's ever known. That strange feeling, combined with the dexterous fingers between her legs have her shuddering and crying out loudly, not caring who might overhear. She buries her face in the soft velvet of his jacket, riding out the shockwaves of her orgasm until her body feels weak and feather light.

Lumen turns to look at Cicero. He is kneeling beside her, dirt staining the knees of his trousers. His chest rising and falling in quick motions, his skin glowing in the milky moonlight. He is all tight, coiled muscles and dark eyes filled with even darker desires, and she’s never wanted him as badly as she does in that very moment. She had thought he would just take her as she was bent over the log, but something made him hesitate.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks, finally understanding what he meant when he told her there is strength in submission. She loses nothing by willingly giving in to him. “Surely you are not finished with me.”

“Oh, far from it,” he says, his mouth quirking into a lopsided grin. “Cicero is just considering his next move.”

“I could suggest a few,” she says, giving an enticing wiggle of her exposed backside.

That sends him into action, and his reaction is not quite what Lumen expects. He bows over her, twisting a hand in her hair and resting his booted foot against the side of the log. “Is that what you want, sweetness?” he whispers. “For your Cicero to bend you over and fuck you senseless?”

“Yes!” she gasps, unsurprised to find herself loving this side of him. She doubts many people get to enjoy being at the murderous madman’s mercy, and even fewer actually survive it.

“How badly do you want it, sweet Listener?”

Lumen gives him a coy smile before giving in and playing along. “Bad,” she says, her voice breathy. “I’m yours. You can have me in any way you want. Just please don’t make me wait any longer.”

She may have been laying it on a bit thick, but it is exactly what Cicero is wanting, if the sound of a boot being kicked off is any indication. There is a rustle of fabric behind her, and the metal clink of a belt being loosed, and then his cock is nudging at her folds and finally hilting inside. He remains still, a hand on her hip and the other back in her hair. She understands his need to for stillness, with her legs bound together it makes her that much tighter. It feels wonderful to her, but Cicero has been left wanting for so long he is probably on the edge of orgasm.

“Is there a problem?” she asks, her voice sweet.

“Quiet,” he snaps, swatting her on the backside and making her squeal. He laughs and swats her again. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Cicero’s never heard _that_ noise before.”

Lumen tugs her arms out of the tattered remains of her tunic, and places her palms on the log to give herself more control. “Shut up and fuck me, you brat,” she gasps, pushing her backside against him, taking him in even deeper, and pulling a stuttering moan from him.

Too pent up to argue with her, he begins to move his hips. His strokes are slow at first, but soon he starts to move faster. Cicero rakes his blunt nails down her back, before grabbing her hip with one hand, and the other snaking around to finger her clit. Lumen whimpers, her overly sensitive flesh singing at the mix of pleasure and pain. “Harder,” she manages to say. “Pull my hair, or spank me, or-- or-- I don’t know--”

Her stammering words are met with a dark chuckle, and Cicero brings his hand down on her backside, pulling a startled yelp from her. He rubs his hand along her flesh, soothing her stinging skin before swatting her again. Lumen never thought she would enjoy something like this. Usually she is the one leaving marks and causing pain. She is always the one in control. In a way, the control is still hers. A word, or even a look, and Cicero would stop. But never in a million years would she ask him to. There is no malice in his actions, and no cruelty in his touch. Each biting sting of pain quickly melts into a warm wave of pleasure that coils in her core.

A second orgasm hits her, and while it is not as powerful as the first, it is no less intense. Her inner walls clench, and Cicero wraps his arms around her, the movement of his hips falling out of rhythm as his own orgasm follows hers. He rests his forehead against her back, groaning out a string of expletives as he spills inside her. Lumen breathes a weak laugh, amused at the polite jester’s foul language.

“Are you satisfied, Keeper?” Lumen asks, trying hard not to complain at the loss of contact when he slowly withdraws.

“Very,” he says, as he helps her to her feet. “And you? Are you well? Cicero was not too rough, was he?”

“You were perfect,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. 

They are both quiet as they clean up and dress themselves. Cicero does apologize for ruining Lumen’s tunic. But it’s a small price to pay for how relaxed she feels now. Sleep will come easy for her, which is a blessing considering the long day of travel they have ahead of them. She’s put off returning to Windhelm as long as she can, and it’s time to finally face Ulfric. She only hopes he will hear her out, rather than throwing her out on her pointed ear.

* * *

Morning comes too soon, and once the four assassins say their goodbyes to their Forsworn friends, they leave the mild temperatures of the Reach for the wretchedly cold weather that dominates the northern holds. The journey to Windhelm is just as cold and as annoying as Lumen knew it would be. Both she and Cicero are swatched in layers of furs, while their Nord companions seem to regard the icy winds as little more than a cool breeze. Luka’s only protection from the cold is a cape and cowl that matches his Dark Brotherhood armor, while Arnbjorn is barely covered at all in his Savior’s Hide.

“Nords,” she muses, wishing she had their innate ability to tolerate such intolerable weather.

“Um-- Miss Lumen,” Luka begins, nervously running his hands through his messy hair as he stares at the gates of Windhelm. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to wait for you at the stables.”

“You may, but I’d like to know why,” she says, knowing he’d rather not give the answer. But she wants to know what has her friend so shaken. “What’s wrong, Luka?”

His jaw goes tense. “I have family in Windhelm,” he explains. “My father and uncle, to be exact, and I would rather not see them.”

Lumen can truly sympathize with that, and even though she’d rather have Luka by her side, she understands his need to avoid his family. “All right, you can wait out here,” she says, glancing at the Altmer stablemaster in the distance. “The elf who owns the stables seems decent, he might let you stay in his home until we finish our business.”

“I’ll ask him,” Luka says, his mood lifting. “I’ll take care of Shadowmere and Felix, don’t worry.”

“May Cicero ask why you wish to avoid your father? Perhaps we could take care of him if he’s that much of a problem for you.”

Luka offers Cicero a sad smile, but he shakes his head. “My father is doing a fine job of drinking himself to death,” he says sadly, unconsciously rubbing his slightly crooked nose. “I left Windhelm when I was fifteen, and I never looked back. That’s, um-- all I wish to say, if that’s all right. It is not a pleasant subject.”

Lumen can see that protective rage welling up in Cicero, and truly, she feels it herself. She wonders if it’s a requirement for all assassins to have father issues? She and Luka certainly have that in the bag, and Arnbjorn too, even though his father isn’t a bad person. They just don’t see eye-to-eye. She doesn’t know about Cicero, though. She’s never asked about his parents. If he wished to talk about it, he would have mentioned it long ago. Some stories are just best left untold.

“All right, Luka,” Lumen says, climbing off Shadowmere and handing him the reigns along with a coin purse. “Take care of the horses for us, and stay warm. Hopefully this won’t take long.”

“Good luck, Miss Lumen,” he says, his cheerful smile returning when he leads the horses to the stable.

A sense of dread settles over her when she begins the long, chilly walk toward the city gates. Her eyes are riveted to the two guards standing in front of the gate. She and her companions look as they did the last time they visited, with the exception of Cicero. Trying to get him to wear anything other than his motley just isn’t worth the fight, and she does see the amusement in the guard’s eyes when they catch sight of a jester walking with two warriors.

“It’s the Dragonborn,” one of the guards on the watchtower says. “Let her in! Jarl Ulfric will wish to see her!”

Just as she thought, she is entirely too recognizable in her daedric armor. She’ll have to ask Arnbjorn to make her something different to wear when she is finished with this Dragonborn business. She cannot be recognizable when she’s assassinating people for Sithis sake! And it seems that Ulfric has definitely heard rumor of her arrest, but at least the guards are not swooping down upon her and her companions.

One of the guards opens the gate, while the other takes the initiative to lead Lumen through the city and to the Palace of the Kings. Inside, Ulfric is sitting on his throne, having a quiet conversation with his housecarl. But he looks up upon seeing the Dragonborn and her companions entering his palace.

“Dragonborn,” he says, rising from his throne, while Galmar stands beside him, looking wary. “I am glad to see you still have your head. The rumors circulating have been most concerning.”

“My jarl,” she murmurs, inclining her head, and trying her best to be respectful. “I do not know what rumors you have heard, but I can tell you the truth if you would hear me out.”

Ulfric sits down in his throne, and motions for his housecarl to stand down before beckoning Lumen forward. “I welcome the truth,” he says. “I grow weary of rumors and conjecture.”

She steps forward, feeling nervous and exposed standing in front of the throne with the members his court all around her. Guards, soldiers, and noble supporters are gathered in the hall, which falls silent. One wrong word, or one inkling that she’s lying, and Ulfric will remove her head quicker than the Imperials ever would.

“As you know, I was in Solitude to invite General Tullius to the peace conference at High Hrothgar. He agreed to see me, but, well-- there was a little problem.” She takes a breath before continuing. “First Emissary Elenwen was there, too.”

There is the slightest twitch at the corner of his eye, betraying some discomfort at hearing the First Emissary’s name. That gives Lumen some hope. If Ulfric hates the Thalmor as much as she’s been told, then she’ll be able to sell him the tale of her false imprisonment. “I see,” he says, nodding his head. “Go on, Dragonborn. Get to the point.”

“The General claimed that an elf infiltrated Castle Dour and attempted to assassinate the emperor. He accused you of sending an assassin to kill the emperor, and he accused me of being that assassin.”

“Damn Imperial scum,” Galmar growls. “As if Ulfric would ever do something so cowardly.”

“Galmar,” Ulfric says, silencing his housecarl. “He accused you of being an assassin, and if the rumors are true, you were jailed. I do not believe General Tullius would jail you unless he felt certain that you had done something to deserve it.”

Lumen folds her arms to hide the fact that her hands are shaking. “It is clear that he is under the thumb of the Thalmor,” she says firmly. “I’m fairly certain he would do anything Elenwen tells him to do, including jailing an innocent for a crime they did not commit.”

“And why would the First Emissary single you out?”

“For many reasons,” she begins, her voice feeling unsteady. It is strange to deny a crime she actually _did_ commit. But all the gods be damned, she needs Ulfric's help, and needs for him to believe her if she’s ever going to get it. “But I suspect the Thalmor wish to destroy my credibility.”

“And mine too, if they are accusing me of sending an assassin.” He stares at her for a long while, scrutinizing her every move and every word. “What I want to know is how you escaped. Castle Dour is very well guarded.”

“The Thalmor took me,” she says quickly, not wishing to recount this tale to Ulfric or his bloody court. “They were going to take me to Alinor.”

Ulfric leans forward at that, looking suspicious. “Why would Tullius allow the Thalmor to take you out of the country if he thought you were a suspect?”

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Lumen gives him a little smile, pleased that he seems interested in her story at least. “I don’t believe Tullius had a choice in the matter, and I am not sure if he truly thinks I am the so-called assassin, or if he was simply acting under Elenwen’s order when he ordered my arrest.”

“Why were the Thalmor taking you to Alinor, anyway?” Galmar demands, his face twisting into a scowl. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s personal,” she snaps, before realizing that she’s going to have to explain it anyway. “The-- the Thalmor who took me did so for personal reasons. But those reasons don’t matter anymore because now he’s dead and here I am, and I still plan to hold this peace council. A temporary cease fire is what I need in order to trap a dragon so I can find Alduin and kill him before he can destroy the world. But in order to do that, Jarl Ulfric, I desperately need your help.”

Ulfric’s brow wrinkles as he takes all this in. “What makes you think the peace council will happen if I agree?”

“Because the other jarls look to you for guidance,” Lumen says. “And I believe Tullius will have no choice but to agree if you agree. He can’t afford to appear weak.”

“You’ve chosen your words wisely, Dragonborn,” he says slowly. “But despite your honeyed words, I can see that your desire for this conference is genuine. Set the date, and I will meet you at High Hrothgar.”

“Oh, wow-- thanks.” She’d been so certain that he would refuse, she doesn’t know how to react to his acceptance. “I should travel to Whiterun as soon as possible and speak to Jarl Balgruuf in person. If all goes well, the conference will be held in a week.”

“Very well, Dragonborn, we’ll meet you in Ivarstead in one week.”

“We’re traveling together?” she asks, wincing when she hears a few laughs coming from the gathered courtiers, who are all silenced when Arnbjorn and Cicero level them with fierce glares.

Ulfric smirks. “Considering your trouble with the Empire, it might be safer for you to travel with a contingent of my soldiers. One would hope Tullius would not be fool enough to attack us on the way to a peace conference.”

“One would hope,” she murmurs, grateful for his offer, but paranoid as to what his true reasons are. Perhaps he just wants to butter her up and pull her to his side. But this is his war, not hers. Nonetheless, she had been worried about an Imperial attack, and she would be stupid to reject protection that is freely given. “I thank you for the offer, Jarl Ulfric. I will see you in Ivarstead.” She sketches a quick bow, and when Ulfric does not beckon her to stay, she and her two companions attempt to leave his court as soon as possible.

Leaving, however, is not easy when she is being greeted by those gathered within Ulfric’s court. They bombard her with questions. Asking her to demonstrate her Shouting ability, which she outright refuses to do. Some ask her about her adventures, hoping for a tale of her heroism. Thankfully, Cicero intervenes and tells those gathered some highly exaggerated tales of their adventures. Soon, the crowd’s focus switches to her companions. They are curious about the men who travel at the Dragonborn’s side. At that point, Arnbjorn grabs both Lumen and Cicero by their collars and all but drags them from the palace.

“What was that about?” Lumen huffs as she skirts around the citizens of Windhelm, hoping to reach the gates before she is accosted by more curious onlookers.

“You don’t get to be the Dragonborn and stay hidden in the shadows, tidbit,” Arnbjorn grumbles.

“It helps that the jarl seems to like you,” Cicero says, as he walks along beside her. “Or, at the very least, he’s willing to work with you.”

“That man does _not_ like me. People in his position don’t have the luxury of having friendship and trust with anyone outside of their inner circle. But I am useful to him. If people hear how Ulfric was the first jarl to agree to the conference, and had even a minor part to play in saving the world from Alduin, it will significantly boost his popularity,” Lumen says, tugging her cloak around her shoulders once they leave the city and step out onto the chilly walkway that leads to the stables. A part of her doesn’t believe she will be able to defeat Alduin, but she does not mention it to her brothers.

“When you return with news of Alduin’s death, it will significantly boost your popularity as well,” Cicero says. “Which is not good considering your line of work.”

“I know,” she grumbles. “Trust me, I would much rather stay in the shadows than be cast in the light and lauded as a hero.”

Her eyes flick to the snow-covered ground as they approach the stables. Luka’s cheerful voice is carried on the wind, as is the voice of the Altmer stablemaster he is conversing with. She is grateful when Cicero takes the initiative and leaves to fetch Luka.

Lumen’s pulse is racing. It was foolish of her to think that her obsession with Altmer would be cured after killing Malrian. It certainly began with him, but it did not end with him. Just the sound of the elf’s distinctly Altmeri accent has her aching to sink her blade into his flesh, and to slit his throat and paint the snow in a sea of crimson. She can’t help but laugh at herself for that.

“What’s so funny, tidbit?” 

“What’s funny is how I have to go around pretending to be something I am not,” she says bitterly. “I don’t care about Ulfric and his war, and I don’t really care about saving the world. The only reason I’m doing any of this is so the Dark Brotherhood can live on. Most people would not think me a hero if they knew that.”

“Most people are idiots,” he says simply. “Your reasons for facing Alduin are your own. Let Ulfric and everyone else believe what they want to. All that matters is that you know why you are doing this.”

“It all just feels a bit fake,” she says. “I’m a killer, not a hero.”

“Most heroes _are_ bloodthirsty killers,” Arnbjorn says with a laugh. “Just look at Talos! The great Tiber Septim who waged war all across Tamriel in the name of unification. You don’t fight in that many battles and actually win them if you don’t like killing. It’s just not called murder when the killing is done under banners and to the sound of trumpets.”

“I read a little about him when I was younger,” she says. “But none of what I read was very flattering. I remember a story about how he had an affair with Barenziah, and then aborted their child against her will.”

“Yeah. What a nice, fucking guy,” Arnbjorn snorts. “That is a story most Talos worshippers like to keep quiet.”

“I can’t claim to be any better.” She begins walking toward the stables now that she’s calmed down enough to deal with the horses without spooking them. “Maybe someday I’ll be worshipped as a Divine,” she laughs. “What do you think?”

Arnbjorn smirks at her. “Gods help us all if that ever happens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had truly meant to keep the smut scene as a fade-to-black thing, but I felt the characterization between Lumen and Cicero was good so I just decided to write it all out. I had fun with it, and I don’t feel like it detracts from the story. I had been really wanting to write something with Cicero being the dominant, and so this happened. I’m happy with it. :) I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Up next: Our assassins travel to Whiterun! Luka gets to work on a contract (remember what Maven asked for?) and Cicero gets into trouble. Meanwhile, Lumen deals with nobles and Arnbjorn deals with his family issues.


	40. The Approaching Storm

There’s something comforting about Whiterun. Maybe it’s because it is the first city Lumen called home when she was new to Skyrim. When she was just another elf trying to get from one day to the next. Back then she spent the majority of her time drinking in the Drunken Huntsman, flirting with Jenassa, and hunting with Anoriath. She was nothing and no one, and she liked it that way.

But as Lumen steps out onto the Great Porch of Dragonsreach, she is hit with the harsh reality that she is no longer a faceless, nameless shadow. Anonymity is a luxury she is no longer afforded now that she has to consort with mad witchmen, nobles, and jarls-- which is something she’s getting surprisingly good at, considering her successful meetings with Ulfric and Balgruuf. 

Jarl Balgruuf believed her story about being arrested on false charges more readily than Ulfric did. He is good-hearted and just a little bit naive, whereas she and Ulfric are cut from the same cloth. She may not share his desire to rule a nation, but she knows a fellow killer when she sees one. Ulfric has more than just Torygg’s blood on his hands, that’s for damn sure.

Balgruuf walks ahead of her, leading her further out onto the Great Porch, and explaining the history of the contraption used in capturing Numinex. Lumen doesn’t quite understand how she can use a device made of wood to successfully capture a dragon until she looks up at what she can only describe as the largest collar she’s ever seen.

It makes her _sick_.

“What do you think?” Balgruuf asks. “I can have my men ensure that the trap is in working order, but I’m afraid you are the one who will have to figure out how to lure a dragon in here.”

“I think I can manage that,” she says distractedly as she moves to stand beneath the large, wooden yoke. She kneels down and places her hand on the floor. There is emotion infused within every inch of the wood of the porch. A deep, resonant anger left by Numinex himself. It is easy for her to sympathize with how a trapped dragon might feel, considering how ashamed and powerless she felt with Malrian’s collar around her neck.

“You are welcome to study the trap as long as you need,” he says. “I have the utmost faith in you, Dragonborn, but I know my advisors will want to prepare an evacuation plan in case this plan of yours goes awry. I’ll send my court mage up to assist you. I daresay he knows more about this contraption than I do.”

Lumen turns to face her companions as the jarl walks away. Luka and Arnbjorn are inspecting the gears of the trap with unhidden interest. Cicero is nearby, but he is showing more interest in a loose stitch in his glove than the trap. 

“I wonder if this is going to work at all,” she wonders aloud, not really expecting an answer.

“Do you want an honest answer, or one that is going to make you feel better?” Cicero asks her, while still keeping his attention firmly on the offending stitch.

“You’ve always been brutally honest with me,” she says. “There’s no reason to hold back now.”

“Sometimes Cicero’s honesty is not always appreciated,” he says, glancing up at her, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Sweet Lumen might not wish to hear what he thinks.”

“And what _do_ you think?” she asks, returning the grin. “Do you think that this dragon is going to eat us and raze the city?”

“In so many words, yes.”

“Yeah, so do I.” She folds her arms and begins to pace. “And that’s only if I’m not eaten alive beforehand at the peace council.”

“Or arrested,” Cicero helpfully adds. “ _Again_.”

“Oh, you two are so cheerful,” Luka huffs, turning around and leveling the two with a stern glare. “It wouldn’t kill you to be positive!”

It’s difficult for Lumen to keep a straight face. She’s seen puppies look more intimidating than the young mage, but she’s not stupid enough to say so. Puppies can’t wield fire, nor do they have Luka’s knowledge of ancient, daedric magic.

“I’m finding it a little difficult to be positive at a time like this.”

“Bah!” He waves his hand in the air, as if he could dismiss the negative thoughts from her mind with a simple wave of his hand. “You have dragon souls in your heart and their words in your head! You have a palace with a giant dragon trap, and a bunch of jarls and nobles all meeting to discuss peace because of you! Miss Lumen, pardon my saying so, but you really must be blind if you cannot see how amazing that is!”

Amazing, yes. But also terrifying, impossible, and certain to result in her premature death. 

“The kid has a point,” comes Arnbjorn’s voice. “The jarls have done nothing but squabble since Ulfric murdered Torygg. Somehow you’ve got them to agree to meet in one place and _talk_. That in itself is a miracle.”

“You guys give me way too much credit sometimes,” she says. “You’re deliberately ignoring all the times I’ve screwed up.”

“We’re politely overlooking them in hopes that you'll cheer up,” Luka says.

Lumen is just about to tell him off, but is interrupted when Jarl Balgruuf’s surly court mage steps out onto the Great Porch. “Greetings Dragonborn,” Farengar says. “I wish I could tell you it’s a pleasure to see you again, but it is not. So ask whatever questions you may have and kindly proceed to get out of my hair. I should like to return to my studies sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, he hasn’t changed at all,” Luka says lowly, before speaking up to address his fellow mage. “Hello Farengar, it’s been a while.”

“I suppose you two know each other from the college?” Lumen asks, trying to remember if she offended the mage during one of her previous visits to the palace, but nothing comes to mind. She’s barely had any interaction with the man outside of procuring a dragonstone tablet for him, and he was as cranky then as he is now.

“Luka.” Farengar says the name like it’s a dirty word. “Still abusing corpses in your free time?”

The young assassin sneers at his fellow mage, but he does not take the bait. Lumen is grateful that he has _some_ sense and at knows better than to engage in a magical pissing match in the middle of Dragonsreach. 

“The jarl sent you to assist us,” Arnbjorn says. “So either _assist_ or get out.” It is unusual for Arnbjorn to leap to anyone’s aid, but he’s successfully managed to direct Farengar’s attention away from Luka and the illegal activities he engaged in at the college. It helps that Arnbjorn is a head taller than the court mage, and he has a giant battle axe slung across his back. 

Farengar heaves a long suffering sigh. “How can I assist you?” he asks sourly. “Do you have questions about the trap?”

“I have concerns,” Arnbjorn says, motioning for Farengar to walk with him. “Some of the cogs are a bit rusted from lack of use. Minimal care has gone into the upkeep of this trap.”

“To be fair, we never expected to actually _use_ it,” Farengar says, before their voices fade into the distance.

Lumen steps away from the group and toward the giant balcony that overlooks the land. A cool breeze sweeps through her hair, tousling her already messy locks. There is a hint of something crisp on the breeze, a kind of sharpness to the air that always heralds snow. Despite the promise of cold weather, none had come to Whiterun Hold yet. The hills below are covered in soft, green grasses, cut through by a wide, rushing river, its banks dotted with pine trees. Beyond all that is a great mountain range that dwarfs everything below it. Even so far away, Lumen cannot help but feel insignificant and small in its shadow.

A bark of laughter reaches her ears, and she turns to see Cicero and Luka walking toward her, both engaged in a lively conversation. It warms her heart to see them together, but the sight does not ease the deep, depressing ache lingering in her chest. She knows she’ll probably die fighting Alduin, and Cicero-- poor, lonely for too long, Cicero, will be without a Listener once again. At least if he loses her, he won’t be completely alone. If she can find any comfort at a time like this, let it be in the knowledge that Luka will take care of him if something happens to her.

“I want to apologize for earlier, Miss Lumen,” Luka says, looking genuinely contrite. “Farengar and I have never seen eye-to-eye.”

“No harm done,” she says with a shrug. “Were you two students together?”

“No, but he’s still very involved with the college. He is one of the mages that voted to have me expelled once my experiments were discovered.” Luka nervously runs his hands through his hair, visibly stressed by the memory of that time. “He wanted to take it one step further by reporting my activities to Jarl Korir and having me jailed. Luckily, the rest of the mages weren’t so keen to advertise what I had done. The college has enough problems, you see. So, I was expelled and exiled.”

“You should come with us to the peace council,” Cicero says, wringing his hat between his hands. “Poor Cicero does not feel right about leaving you here all on your own! Especially with that nasty mage with his nasty sideburns. He could cause problems for you!”

“I’m not a child,” Luka sighs, folding his arms in a huff. “Farengar won’t be a problem, and I will take care of him if he tries anything stupid. Besides, I have _work_ to do, remember? Miss Lumen gave me a contract.”

Cicero’s bottom lip juts out in a furious pout. “But--”

“We already discussed this,” Lumen says wearily. “Luka doesn’t want to go, and as he said, he has work to do. He’ll be fine.”

She had passed Maven Black-Briar’s contract onto Luka since he has no desire to travel to High Hrothgar with them. He offered a very vague explanation as to why-- something about wanting to avoid contact with his extended family. Lumen didn’t bother to press the issue, and she certainly isn’t going to force him to go. Taming ill-behaved jarls _technically_ isn’t Brotherhood work.

“Fine,” the sulky Keeper grumbles. “Cicero understands. Cicero _always_ understands.”

“I’ll be here when you return from the conference,” Luka says, giving Cicero’s shoulder a squeeze. “I can’t let you capture a dragon without me! I’d never forgive myself if I missed that!”

Lumen shakes her head, not quite feeling his enthusiasm. “Come on, it looks like Arnbjorn and the Grumpy One are almost done inspecting the trap. I don’t know about you two, but I’d like to get thoroughly intoxicated and stay that way for the rest of the day.”

“It is barely noon,” Cicero complains, but he knows better than to prevent Lumen from indulging.

She walks ahead of the two. Eager to leave the palace behind, and even more eager to drown her sorrows. They leave for Ivarstead tomorrow, and today is the last day she has to get properly soused, and she’s not going to let it go to waste.

* * *

It is sunny when the three companions leave Whiterun, but the sky grows bleak and grey as they begin their journey along the winding, forest road to Ivarstead. The road is not as quiet and peaceful as it was the last time Lumen made this trek. They are constantly passing other travelers by, and the forest rings with the sound of birdsong and distant conversations. Each jarl boasts a massive caravan of guards, courtiers, and servants. 

Lumen wrinkles her nose, offended at the stink of so many humans and horses mingled together. “I hope they aren’t planning to bring their entire households up to High Hrothgar.”

Cicero makes a small noise of agreement, but says nothing on the matter. He has been tense and alert ever since they entered the forest. He reasoned that if Ulfric agreed to attend the conference, then General Tullius would be honor bound to show up, and it stands to reason that the Thalmor may make an appearance as well.

The Keeper is not alone in his paranoia. While Cicero has had his eyes on every passing noble and guard, Arnbjorn has been watching the shadows between the trees. Lumen isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but at least she feels safe with both of her boys watching her back.

“Wait,” Arnbjorn says, slowing his horse to a stop. “We’re almost there, but I think we need to scout ahead. There’s an army waiting. Although I don’t know if they are Stormcloaks or Imperials.”

“How can you tell?” Lumen asks, patting Shadowmere on the neck to soothe him.

“I can hear their armor,” he explains. “Soldiers make an incredible amount of noise. Even when they are standing perfectly still.”

Cicero quickly dismounts Shadowmere. “Cicero shall go and see who awaits us! His poor rear is killing him after all this riding, anyway. _You_ could try to walk a bit softer,” he says, poking the horse's nose, only to be nipped at.

Lumen watches him disappear into the trees, hoping that whomever awaits them in Ivarstead is at least friendly. She supposes anyone aligned with the Stormcloaks will be friendly to the Dragonborn. Unfortunately, she doesn't know which side some of the jarls have aligned themselves with. She never asked. She never needed to know until now. This civil war wasn’t her problem until she killed the wrong man in front of a dozen witnesses.

“Don’t look so nervous, tidbit,” Arnbjorn murmurs, his voice pitched low. “We are being watched.”

“A _lot_ of people want me dead,” she hisses, trying not to appear shocked at the news. “Hard not to feel nervous. Especially after you tell me something like that!”

“A lot of people want you alive, too,” he says, gently grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at the road.

A small group of Stormcloak soldiers walk into view, lead by none other than Cicero himself. “Look what I found, sweet Lumen!” he chirps, grabbing one of the men by the arm and all but dragging him to her. “Cicero found them waiting for us just around the bend!”

“Hello again, Dragonborn,” Ralof says, gently prying his arm from Cicero’s grip. “I am relieved to see you alive and well.”

“Likewise,” she says, grateful that she doesn’t have to lie to him. He’d been kind to her, and she would not forget it anytime soon. “Were you really waiting for us?”

“We were,” the Nord says as he squares his shoulders. “Jarl Ulfric wanted us to greet you when you arrived. He wishes to speak with you, and I have been given the honor of escorting you to our camp.”

“All right,” she says as she tries to steady Shadowmere while Cicero climbs back on the horse. “Lead the way, Ralof.”

The Nord gives her the brightest smile she’s ever seen on a soldier as he and his men lead her through the town. Many people openly stare as the Dragonborn and her two companions are escorted by the Stormcloak soldiers. Some seem to approve, but others glare and murmur insults under their breath, offended that the Dragonborn is not bothering to remain neutral. But neutrality is not an option with the Empire certain of her guilt and thirsting for her blood. Whether she likes it or not, the safest place for her to be is with the Stormcloaks.

Her eyes carefully scan her surroundings. The conference is set to begin two days from now, and while the town is overrun by various jarls and their people, all have not arrived. Lumen does not see a single Imperial soldier or Thalmor in sight, which comes as a relief. What she does see are multiple encampments set up around the town, all boasting their jarl’s heraldry. But what truly grabs her attention are a pair of very familiar Bretons-- Uraccen and Kaie, to be exact. They are walking toward the tavern, both dressed in typical, Nordic fare, and when Uraccen notices her staring, he winks at her.

“Interesting,” Cicero murmurs against the shell of her ear. “It seems you have many friends here.”

“I figured they would show up,” she whispers. “But I would use the term ‘friends’ lightly when it comes to them.”

“They probably feel the same way about us, to be fair,” he chuckles.

The Stormcloak camp is set up near Fellstar Farm. There are at least a dozen soldiers within the camp, and that’s not counting Ralof and his two companions. Small, weather-worn tents are set up around a large, central tent that is tall enough to stand in. Lumen, Arnbjorn and Cicero all dismount their respective horses, and leave them tethered close to the small cavalry the Stormcloak's brought with them.

“I need to inform Jarl Ulfric of your arrival, but first-- ” Ralof gently clasps Lumen’s forearm in his hand. The Nordic version of a handshake makes her miss the very formal and standoffish greetings the Thalmor tend to use, but at least the Nords don’t favor kissing like the Imperials do. “First, I just want to thank you and your companions. If it weren’t for the three of you, I’d still be in that cell-- or dead.” 

Cicero had told Lumen about how he decided to free the other prisoners when he rescued Arnbjorn, but he’d not done it for any other reason than to create chaos. Still, Lumen won’t tell Ralof what he doesn’t need to know “You’re welcome,” she says, trying not to sound insincere. 

“Sweet, kind Cicero couldn’t just leave all those poor Stormcloaks there,” the jester says, eager to get whatever he can out of Ralof’s gratitude. “Oh, no. It would have weighed very heavy on his conscious! He probably would have lost hours and hours of sleep if he did!”

Ralof smiles at him. “I did not expect my savior to be an Imperial, but I am grateful all the same.”

“Cicero may be an Imperial, but he is not a fan of the Empire,” he says, wrapping his arms around Lumen. “Especially not when they team up with nasty Thalmor who try to steal his beautiful L-- uh, _Dragonborn_ away.”

Arnbjorn sucks in a breath, while Lumen attempts to bite back a groan at Cicero’s near slip-up. Ralof probably wouldn't know what he meant if he called her ‘Listener’ but it’s still dangerous to do. The fact that he nearly did is cause for concern. Cicero is always so careful around outsiders.

Ralof quirks a brow at Cicero. “Anyway, I’ll go let Jarl Ulfric know you’re here. I don’t want to make him wait too long.” He quickly strides away, his chainmail clattering against his iron armor and disturbing a nearby flock of sparrows with the din.

“And _that_ is why I can hear soldiers from a mile away,” Arnbjorn says, laughing to himself. “I know how most Nords feel about mages, but you would think it would be to their benefit to hire one to place some muffle enchantments on their armor.”

Lumen walks through the camp with Arnbjorn and Cicero following along behind her. She swallows hard when she notices the soldiers staring at her. She _hates_ being stared at. Civilians don’t tend to stare too much, most just watch her out of the corners of their eyes or not at all. But soldiers are different. Soldiers are taught to stare and to intimidate. But when she looks closer she does not see any malice in their eyes. Only curiosity.

The Stormcloaks aren’t used to having elves walking so freely through their camps. But she is no ordinary elf, is she? She’s the bloody Dragonborn, and it helps that her armor makes her look as menacing as any dragon. The tight leather has been accented with dragon scales, and her daedric pauldrons are freshly polished and dangerously sharp. The daedric accents even carry a slight glow-- a glow that becomes more apparent as the evening turns to dusk and the sunlight fades.

She isn’t the only one who is drawing attention. Her companions stand out as much as she does. A jester in Skyrim is odd enough, but a jester with a suspiciously stained motley and an ebony dagger strapped to his hip certainly draws the eye. Then there is Arnbjorn with his wild, white hair and strange, silver eyes.

They stand a respectable distance away from the tent, watching as Ralof exits first. He is followed by Galmar and Ulfric. Galmar is scowling more than Lumen ever thought possible, but Ulfric looks the same as he always does. Tall, broad, and stern, the very definition of a True Nord, right down to the suspicion in his eyes. There is something about those cold, blue eyes that draws Lumen in. They are the eyes of someone who has seen too much. Perhaps it is nothing more than the cost of war, but she wonders if it’s something more. 

Most assassins are adept at reading people, and Lumen is no exception. She may have played the fool in the past when it came to Cicero’s feelings, but that was her own cowardice at work. It’s terrifying to see any vulnerability in someone so strong, and even more terrifying when she feels the same. But with Ulfric it’s easy. It’s easy with _anyone else_ because she doesn’t care about anyone outside of the Dark Brotherhood. They are just books to be read, tools to be used, or throats to be cut.

Ulfric is both a simple, yet incredibly frustrating target to sort out. He is seen as he wants to be seen, and he guards his secrets like a greedy dragon guarding its hoard.

“Dragonborn.” Ulfric greets her with a slight nod of his head. “I trust your journey went well?”

Lumen inclines her head just enough so as not to be disrespectful, but not enough to be considered a formal bow. “Well enough given the current political climate,” she says. “I was certain we would run into Thalmor on the road, but there were none to be seen.”

“We didn’t see any of the pointy-eared bastards, either,” Galmar growls. “From Windhelm to Ivarstead, you think we would have passed at least a single patrol. They’re up to something.”

“I think I actually agree with you,” Lumen says, surprised at the fact. “Traveling so far without seeing a single patrol is odd.” Odd, if not disappointing. She had been eager to spill some Thalmor blood.

“We will worry about the Thalmor when and if they show up,” Ulfric says firmly, clearly tired of the subject. “Dragonborn, would you come with me a moment? I would like to speak with you.” He casts a glance at Cicero and Arnbjorn before adding, “ _Alone_ , if you please.”

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek as she considers his request. “All right,” she says, and then follows him inside his large tent. Inside, there is a simple cot lined with furs, a weapon rack, and a desk that is also serving as a makeshift dining table. He motions for her to sit, before lighting a lantern and joining her at the table.

“You were at High Hrothgar not too long ago, were you not?”

“I was.”

“How is Master Arngeir?” he asks quietly. 

“I suppose you will find out soon enough,” she says, uncertain as to his motivations. “For what it’s worth, he seemed fine last time I saw him. Although he is not particularly thrilled with my decision to kill Alduin.”

Ulfric breathes a laugh. “No,” he says, his lips quirking up into a shadow of a smile. “I suspect he is not.”

“Not to be rude, but is there a point to this? Surely you didn’t invite me into your tent to reminisce about the Greybeards.” She regards him carefully. In the stark light of the lantern, he looks old and tired. Deep shadows fall along the groove of an old scar, and accentuate the lines around his eyes. Even with such a gruff exterior he seems oddly vulnerable where the Greybeards are concerned. 

“You are very impatient, Dragonborn,” he says, sounding more amused than irritated. “I wanted to invite you and your companions to stay in our camp. You are welcome to our mead, our food, and to some of our protection.”

“That’s very generous of you,” she says, although she does wonder what he’s trying to pull. Still, the inn is full and General Tullius and his forces will be arriving in a day or two. Lumen would prefer to have a place to hide, and what better place than in the middle of a Stormcloak camp? “But won’t this make you look bad? The Empire is accusing the Dragonborn of murdering the Emperor on _your_ command.”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Galmar when he voiced his objections to this invitation,” he says, smiling bitterly. “The Empire has been after my head longer than they have been after yours.”

“The Empire won’t be after mine for much longer if Alduin has his way,” she says, meaning as a joke, but her voice falters in the wake of her fear.

If Ulfric notices, he gives her the courtesy of not mentioning it. “If something happens,” he begins, pausing for a moment to consider his words. “If the Empire does try to arrest you again, or simply execute you on the spot, I will not help you. You are Dragonborn, and I respect that, but I will not risk my men’s lives for someone who has not sworn fealty to me.”

There are many answers she could give him, most of them rude, and followed by equally rude gestures. But the unfortunate thing is that she does understand why he’s telling her this. She understands his motivations for doing so. He wants to have the bragging rights of getting _the Dragonborn_ to bend the knee and swear loyalty.

“Do I look like a woman who needs saving?” she asks, grinning darkly. “I can kill a man with a single breath. But then-- so can you.”

His polite smile twists into a grimace. “I’m afraid those stories about me Shouting Torygg to pieces are a bit exaggerated.”

Lumen stands up, her leather armor creaking loudly in the relative silence of the tent. “I appreciate your most generous offer, Jarl Ulfric, but I am afraid I will have to decline. My companions and I will make our camp elsewhere,” she says, trying her best not to sound insulting. “I would like a little peace and quiet after spending so many days on the road, and a camp full of soldiers is hardly peaceful or quiet.”

“I understand, Dragonborn,” he says, pushing away from his chair to see her out of the tent. “You are welcome to travel to High Hrothgar alongside me and my men, should you desire to. The stories of you escaping the Empire and the Thalmor have inspired them.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, stepping out of the tent before Ulfric can say more on the subject. She is tired, sore, and irritated. All she wants to do is collect Arnbjorn and Cicero, and try to get some rest before making the long walk up to High Hrothgar.

* * *

The assassins decide to set camp on the other side of the river, close to the mountain and far from the jarls, nobles, and their soldiers. It is a good spot, despite the light dusting of snow. It gives them a clear view of the town, and an easy exit if things suddenly go bad. There’s a decrepit, old shack nearby. The sight of it is oddly nostalgic because it is where she completed her first, official Dark Brotherhood contract. She killed an old beggar named Narfi, and then dumped his corpse in the fast flowing river. 

Lumen narrows her eyes as she stares at an unusually crowded Ivarstead. The town is a sea of colors-- primarily Stormcloak blue and silver, but that will change when the Empire arrives. “That old fart is up to something,” she growls. “I just don’t know what it is.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious, tidbit.” Arnbjorn pokes at their meager campfire with a stick, while Cicero adds more wood to the pile. “He wants you to swear your loyalty to him. It’s as simple as that.”

“Or perhaps he just wants to see you on your knees,” Cicero chimes in. “Cicero always enjoys the image.”

“It cannot be that simple,” she says, all while making a rude gesture at Cicero. “What good is the loyalty of an elven fugitive?”

“You’re the Dragonborn,” Arnbjorn says, distracted with his task of stoking the fire. “That’s all he sees. That’s all most people see. Elven or not, you are a symbol to the Nords, and you just happened to appear when there’s a civil war going on-- a war that’s about their right to freely worship Talos. You may see it as just a coincidence, but those men see it as fate.”

“I didn’t ask for this! I never wanted to be a damn symbol!” she snaps, kicking a pinecone into some nearby bushes and scaring a rabbit out of hiding. “This entire country is crazy!”

Cicero laughs at her indignant display. “Speaking of crazy…”

Lumen takes a deep breath full of crisp, mountain air in a vain attempt to calm herself. “How do you know all this, anyway?” she demands, ignoring Cicero’s comment.

“I spoke to some of the soldiers in the camp,” Arnbjorn says, grinning at her little fit. “I had nothing else to do, so I thought I would see what I could learn while you and Ulfric were talking.”

“It is true! Cicero was there!” he says, skipping across their small camp stand at her side. “They seem fond of you. At least, that Ralof certainly does.” He wraps his arms around her, pressing his body as close as he can despite her layers of cloaks and armor. “What exactly happened between you two during your short stay in that prison cell? Hmm? Is there anything you’d like to tell Cicero?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snaps, not appreciating his innuendo at all. “Nothing happened.”

“Well that’s boring,” he complains.

“Hush.” She wraps her arms around him, enjoying his warmth and his familiar scent. She has no desire to verbally spar with him, even though he’s being a bit of a pest. Time, it seems, is running out for her, and she wants to cherish every moment she has left with him. Even if he is being a brat.

Arnbjorn comes to stand near them, gazing out at the village. “I hate to interrupt your weird moment,” he says. “But our Imperial friends have just arrived, and they brought company.”

Lumen swallows hard when she sees soldiers marching red and black banners into the small town. The sight is made even worse by the robed, hooded figures walking with them. The Legion and the Thalmor, together like always. Lumen had known they would come, but some small part of her had hoped the Aldmeri Dominion would take no interest in the peace council. But it’s not as if the Imperial Legion can make a single decision without their Thalmor babysitters standing nearby.

“Cicero has a bad feeling about this,” the Keeper mutters. “Can we… Can we just go home? I do not like the sight of so many soldiers and Thalmor gathered in one place. Your justiciar may be dead and gone, but surely the others will seek retribution.”

“I’ve considered that,” Lumen sighs. “But we can’t go home. This council needs to happen if I have any hope of using Dragonsreach to trap a dragon.”

“Another idea Cicero dislikes,” he whines. “Although that is not as horrible as the thought of you being whisked off to Sovngarde to fight some god!”

“That’s enough, niblet,” Arnbjorn says, laying a heavy hand down on Cicero’s shoulder. “She’s got enough to worry about without having to hear it from you. Let her be.”

Silence falls between the three, and Lumen expects Cicero to attack Arnbjorn or insult him. She does not expect his face to break out into the biggest smile she’s ever seen, and she certainly doesn’t expect to see the little man throw his arms around Arnbjorn’s waist. “Cicero has a nickname!” the Keeper squeals. “Oh, brother, does that mean you like poor Cicero?”

Arnbjorn rolls his head back and mutters something that sounds like _“fuck me”_ to the heavens. “I like you just fine,” he growls while he attempts to push Cicero away. “But that will change if you keep hugging me.”

“But Cicero doesn’t want to stop!” He grins up at the tall Nord, his hands roaming across his back. “You’re so warm and, hmm-- _rugged_! Cicero can see why Lumen is so fond of you.”

“Right.” Arnbjorn grabs Cicero’s hands to keep them from roaming straight down his backside. “Tidbit, please control your clown. I’m seconds away from tossing him into the river.”

“Brother!” Cicero gasps. “You wouldn’t!”

“Don’t tempt me, little man.”

“You _are_ warm,” Lumen says, coming up on his other side and pressing close to him. She runs her hand down his stomach, barely able to feel the muscles though his armor. “But your warmth is not the only reason I like you.”

“That’s enough,” he says, his voice a little strained as he wrestles himself away from the two handsy assassins. He takes a moment to right his cloak, and Lumen does not miss the slight flush to his cheeks. Is it just her imagination, or is he a little embarrassed? Oh, that’s funny. She will have to file that away for later use. Perhaps she will compile a list of ways to make the big, burly Nord blush.

“All right, Cicero, looks like we need to stop teasing Arnbjorn,” she says as she takes a seat in front of the now roaring fire. “His cheeks are so red, I fear he may burst into flames.”

Cicero settles down next to her. “He is awfully shy for a Nord, isn’t he?”

Arnbjorn heaves a sigh and collects a bow and a quiver of arrows his his pack. “I’m going to hunt,” he grumbles. “You two sit here, be quiet, and be good. I’ll be back shortly.” And with that, he strides off into the woods, muttering a litany of curses to himself.

“We should probably leave him alone when he comes back,” Lumen says. “His patience is a bit limited.”

“Oh, Cicero knows. But Cicero is willing to risk disembowelment if it means he gets to see his sweet Lumen smile again.” He gently cups her face in his hands, the leather of his gloves ice cold in comparison to the warmth blooming in her chest. “You do not do that enough, lately.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, resting her forehead against his. “I have been a little preoccupied.”

“More than a little,” he says, and then he kisses her.

Cicero’s lips are eager and warm, and only a little dry thanks to Skyrim’s blustering winds. His hand curls around the back of her neck, while the other fists in her cloak. He clutches her so tightly, and kisses her so desperately, she would not be able to break away even if she wanted to. Even though it’s woefully temporary, the tenderness of his touch chases away all her worries and fears. She does not think about dragons or jarls, or anything else. All she cares about is the madman who is kissing her like his life depends on it, and for one brief, fleeting moment, all is right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates. The last few months were very busy. I cannot say how quickly updates will be happening because I have a lot on my plate, but I will try not to let the fic sit for months and collect dust. The reason this chapter took extra long is because I was not liking the direction I was originally taking it in. So I scrapped the entire thing and rewrote it. I’m pleased that I did! :)


	41. Season Unending

The morning of the peace conference is bright and bitterly cold. The snow along The Throat of The World sparkles like a jewel in the early morning light. Birds are singing, the river is rushing along as it always has, and the trees are rustling in the gentle breeze. Even the crowds that have gathered in the sleepy town of Ivarstead are murmuring pleasantly; with only the occasional laugh or shout breaking through the quiescent hum.

It is an oddly peaceful morning for a world that is teetering on the edge of chaos.

The three assassins are quiet as they dine on a breakfast of roasted rabbit. Lumen is grateful not to be eating hardtack or dried meat, and it is all thanks to Arnbjorn’s impromptu hunt. As it is, she only feels slightly guilty for teasing him so much the night before.

Arnbjorn keeps his eyes on the Stormcloak camp across the river. They all agreed it would be best to travel with them, despite Lumen’s irritation with Ulfric. She can tolerate him and his men trying to sway her to their cause, at least they are not thirsting for her blood. Arnbjorn signals her when he notices the Stormcloaks taking down their camp, and the three assassins follow suit.

They wait for the Stormcloaks across the bridge, just at the base of the steps that lead up the mountain. Lumen is wrapped in so many cloaks, she looks more like a pile of laundry than an elf. But she’d rather look ridiculous than freeze her fingers off on the side of some godsforsaken mountain. 

Ulfric and Galmar are the first to cross the bridge, and they are followed by a small unit of soldiers. Galmar holds a hand up, a silent order for the men steady their mounts and give the jarl and the Dragonborn some privacy to talk. Ulfric rides up beside her, struggling to steady his nervous horse. Galmar, too, is shushing and soothing his dappled steed. Both horses are rightfully wary of Shadowmere.

“Good morning, Dragonborn,” Ulfric says with a nod. “My men will be pleased to have you traveling with us today.”

“What about you?” she asks, watching him carefully. If he is upset with her for refusing to swear her loyalty to him, he does not show it. “Are you pleased, Jarl Ulfric?”

His answer to that question is a fleeting smile. “I trust you remember what we discussed last night?”

“I do,” she says. “I don’t expect to be attacked by anything more than a case of frostbite on this path. But if something does happen and the Imperials decide to arrest me on the spot, I do not expect your men you leap to my defense.” She falls quiet for a moment, carefully weighing her next words. “I expect nothing from you.”

“Very well.” He does not seem surprised by her answer, and his expression gives away nothing. “Come along, then. I should like to reach High Hrothgar before nightfall.”

Lumen nudges Shadowmere into action, following behind the jarl and his housecarl as they make their ascent. Arnbjorn and Cicero trail behind her on their own respective mounts. The ride up the mountain is arduous and more than what one horse can handle with two riders. Cicero saw no reason to push Shadowmere’s limits, as impressive as they are. So he acquired his own horse in the middle of the night; a stunning palomino with silver hair. He claims he found it, which means he stole it. He’s just refusing to fess up to it.

The snow covered evergreens glitter in the sunlight, and even the violent winds that plague the mountain path have calmed. Behind her, she can hear the soldiers comment on their good fortune, but she knows that this is merely the calm before a violent storm. Even the wolves that normally hunt for weary travelers have opted to remain hidden. But that is not an odd occurrence when traveling with Arnbjorn. The scent of a werewolf tends to ward off the lesser wolves.

Cicero’s horse canters up beside her when the mountain path begins to widen. “Are you warm enough, sweetness?” he asks. “Cicero thinks you may be wearing every cloak in Skyrim, but he is certain he could find another if you needed one-- you cannot have his, though. This mountain air is wretchedly cold.”

“I’m fine,” she says, glancing forward at Galmar and Ulfric, who are engaged in a hushed conversation. “I’m curious, what do you think about this war? Is there a side you favor?”

He looks thoughtful for a moment, pursing his lips and glancing upwards, as if he might find his answer in the clouds. “Cicero has no dog in this fight,” he finally says. “I do not rightly care about Talos, but, then again, I do not care about _any_ Divine. You know where Cicero’s loyalties lie in that regard.”

“I know,” Lumen says. “Unfortunately, the war affects us now, whether we like it or not.” Perhaps the peace council would be a less stressful endeavour had Astrid not sold her out. Organizing it would’ve been easier for her, and much safer for Cicero and Arnbjorn if she wasn’t wanted by the Empire. The actions of her former leader seem intent on dogging her steps for the rest of her life. _“That spiteful bitch may kill me yet.”_

“Cicero supposes it is _your_ fault since you had the audacity to be Dragonborn,” he says, grinning at her. “How dare you.”

“My apologies,” she says, smiling softly. “At least it will not be our problem for very long. Once this council is organized I can wash my hands of all this politicking.”

“But you are getting so good at it!” 

Lumen snorts at that, but she doesn’t reply. She truly has no idea how she managed to convince Ulfric to agree to the peace council. All she knows is that she so desperately needed him to agree to it, it was all she could think about for the longest time. Somehow, by some strange, miracle, he agreed. If there is a Talos, then perhaps he had a hand in helping her out? Or maybe the old Nord just took pity on her? It is hard to say, and she doubts she’ll ever know the truth.

“For what it’s worth, people like _us_ should not have any political affiliations,” Cicero begins, dropping his voice low, as to not be overheard. “It is a conflict of interest. Besides, wars happen, leaders rise and fall, but the Brotherhood lives on.” He tilts his head, smiling slyly. “That said, do you happen to favor a side?”

Lumen shrugs, although such a small movement is nearly imperceptible under the bulk of her cloaks. “What’s the point?” she asks. “The Aldmeri Dominion is going to crush the Stormcloaks _and_ the Empire in time. Altmer are patient. They will wait centuries if they have to, if only to strike when the time is right.”

“And you would be just fine with that?”

“Well, no,” she says tersely. “But it doesn’t matter what I want. It’s not like I can do anything to stop it.”

They are silent for some time before Cicero speaks up. “Sweet Lumen is surely aware that the Stormcloaks and the Empire are not the only forces vying for Skyrim, yes?”

“I’m not stupid,” she drawls. “I haven’t forgotten about the Forsworn. But they only seem interested in one, tiny part of Skyrim. Not the country as a whole.”

“Perhaps that is what Madanach wants you to think.” Cicero pauses to catch a snowflake on his tongue, seemingly forgetting about the conversation at hand before he says, “Perhaps that is what he wants _everyone_ to think.”

“Perhaps,” Lumen agrees. “That conniving old bastard may be nuttier than a squirrel dropping, but he’s smart, I’ll give him that.”

Cicero cackles, his shrill laughter echoing off the mountainside and drawing a glance from a very irritated Galmar. He bites his lip to quiet himself, his mirthful grin morphing into something more menacing when he notices he’s being glared at. “Oooh, Cicero does not think the bear-man likes us much.”

“I think my ears are too pointy for his liking,” Lumen murmurs. “And you're too southern.”

Thier conversation peters out after that, and the day wears on, growing colder by the hour. They reach High Hrothgar by evening, when the sky is a blaze of gold and red. The handful of soldiers traveling with them all murmur their appreciation of such a grand sight, but Lumen is far too cold to be impressed. Her stomach is tight with anxiety, her mouth dry and her toes numb. She doubts Arnbjorn and Cicero are faring much better, judging by how silent they have been. But when she catches sight of the ancient mountain fortress, she can feel some of her tension begin to unwind. At least she should be safe from the Empire while on neutral ground.

“Finally,” she breathes, nudging Shadowmere with her heel and bypassing Galmar and Ulfric on the way to the stables. Arnbjorn and Cicero trail along behind her, both as eager as she to be inside the warm fortress rather than spend any more time on the cold mountain trail.

* * *

Lumen steps into High Hrothgar, followed by Cicero, Arnbjorn, and for some reason, Galmar Stone-Fist. Ulfric had wished to remain outside for a while, but Galmar did not remain with him. Which is odd, and a little telling. It seems the giant, bear-man has been tasked with keeping an eye on the three assassins.

Delphine and Esbern are already inside the main hall of High Hrothgar, and they are busy exchanging some rather heated words with Arngeir. Delphine is so focused on her argument with the Greybeard, she doesn’t notice Lumen entering the hall.

“The Blades are not welcome here,” Arngeir says firmly, his voice just on the edge of true anger. “This is a place of peace.”

“We have every right to be at this council,” Delphine snaps, lifting her chin in defiance. “We’re the ones who set the Dragonborn on this path in the first place.”

“We are aware of the path you set her on, but she has made her own choices,” Arngeir says, his eye softening when he catches sight of Lumen. “Paarthurnax is still safe from your malice.”

“And who is safe from _his_ malice?” Delphine demands, her back still facing Lumen, and so far, still unaware that she is there. “What do you old fools plan to do when he decides to start hunting humans again? What then? Are you just going to sit on your mountain and _meditate_ at him? Planning to bore him to death?”

“ _Delphine_ ,” Lumen says, her tone light in the wake of her anger. She may not have the best relationship with the Greybeards, but she is not going to stand by and allow them to be disrespected. “You’re just the person I wanted to see after a long, annoying journey. I’m so pleased you could be here to harass the Greybeards.”

“Does it make you murderously happy?” Cicero asks, not caring to diffuse the already tense situation. Delphine already set the last nail in her coffin when she threatened Lumen in front of him, and it’s only a matter of time before the hammer falls.

“Enough!” Esbern’s voice echoes around the cavernous stone room, silencing them all. “We're not here to rehearse old grudges. The matter at hand is urgent. Alduin must be stopped!” The room falls silent, all eyes turning to Esbern. When he sees that he has everyone’s attention, he steps up to address Arngeir. “You wouldn't have agreed to host this council if you didn't agree. We know a great deal about the situation and the threat that Alduin poses to us all. You need us here if you want this council to succeed.”

Master Arngeir sighs. “Very well,” he says solemnly. “The Blades may stay-- for now.”

“Thank you,” Esbern says, respectfully inclining his head before stepping away to join Delphine.

“I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come,” Arnbjorn growls, all while keeping a wary eye on the two Blades.

“Trust me, it is,” Galmar says. “This sham of a peace conference is nothing more than something else to fight about, and it’s only going to make things worse in the long run. A lot of blood will be spilled because of this temporary truce of yours, _elf_. I hope you’re happy.”

Lumen whirls around, ready to chew the man's head off. “The reason I had to organize this council in the first place is because Jarl Balgruuf couldn’t trust his own kinsmen not to attack his city!” 

“Bah!” The grizzled, old Nord folds his arms and levels her with a glare. “Balgruuf would be far less paranoid if he’d stop being a milk-drinker and just choose a side!” he snarls, unaware that Jarl Balgruuf and his housecarl have just stepped into the main hall, and are standing right behind him.

“I thank you for that assessment, Stone-Fist,” says a very annoyed Jarl Balgruuf. He glares at the older man while Irileth relieves him of his heavy cloak. With a nod to Lumen, he passes her by in order to greet the Greybeards.

Cicero giggles. “This is why sneaky Cicero always looks behind him before he starts slandering someone! You never know who might overhear!”

Both Lumen and Arnbjorn share a look, knowing perfectly well that Cicero does not care one whit about who may overhear his scandalous remarks. But Lumen has no desire to say so. Not when the Imperial delegation has just walked in, with the First Emissary in tow. Arnbjorn tenses up, and even Cicero grows quiet when he catches sight of her.

“So, you’ve done it,” Arngeir says, approaching the group of assassins. “The men of violence are gathered here, in these halls whose very stones are dedicated to peace.”

Lumen tears her eyes away from Elenwen. “Well,” she stammers, not quite having regained control over herself. “They are here in the name of peace. That counts for something, right?”

“They may put their weapons down for a moment, but only to gather strength for the next bloodletting. They are not yet tired of war. Far from it. Do you know the ancient Nord term for war? _Season unending_ \-- so it has proved,” he sighs. “Excuse me, Dragonborn. I find myself in need of some air.”

“This is going swimmingly, so far,” Cicero chirps.

“Not helping, niblet,” Arnbjorn grumbles as he moves to Lumen’s side. “This is a dumb question, I know. But, are you okay?”

“Oh, sure. I’m great.” She licks her lips, which are a bit raw since she’s been anxiously chewing them all day. “I’ve completely violated the sanctity of High Hrothgar, and I doubt Master Arngeir is going to forget that. General Tullius is glaring daggers at me, and Elenwen is looking smug, as always. You’d think Tullius would have _something_ to say to me, some idle threat to make. But instead he’s just standing there and doing nothing. The Thalmor are definitely up to something.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Galmar,” Arnbjorn says, casting a glance at Ulfric’s housecarl, who is currently engaged in a glaring match with Legate Rikke. “High Hrothgar is neutral ground, the Imperials are not stupid enough to openly attack you here.”

“It’s not the Imperials I’m worried about,” she hisses. “The Thalmor are not going to let Malrian’s death, and the deaths of all the guards on his ship, go unanswered.”

“I only see one Thalmor.” Arnbjorn pulls Lumen into a side chamber, away from the noise of the gathering. “You’ve killed more than that all by yourself, right?”

Cicero follows along, not wishing to be on his own among so many strangers. “Arnbjorn is right,” he adds. “Sweet Lumen could surely kill this one Thalmor with no trouble at all.”

“Would you two just let me panic in peace?” she snarls, stepping away from the two, and sitting down on a nearby bench. “That Thalmor is Malrian’s sister! Not to mention, she’s the First Emissary! She’s not someone to take lightly, and she’s not going to ignore the fact that I killed her baby brother!”

Both Arnbjorn and Cicero glance at each other, neither quite seeing the danger in one, lone Thalmor, but they aren’t willing to argue with Lumen about it, either. 

“All right, tidbit.” Arnbjorn sits down next to her, putting an arm around her. “We’re with you. If she wants you, she has to go through us first, and I promise you, we won’t make it easy.”

“Cicero hopes the Thalmor strumpet _does_ try,” he says, giggling as he deftly twirls his ebony blade. “Cicero will gladly send her to the Void for worrying his sweet Lumen.”

“You’re a dear,” she says weakly, feeling slightly mollified. “Just wait until we’re outside to bleed her dry, please.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he drawls, rolling his eyes. “It would be a travesty if Cicero were to offend your pacifist friends.”

Lumen closes her eyes, and tries to allow herself a moment of peace while she gathers her strength to go face the steadily growing crowd of jarls and housecarls. She wants to run, but she knows she can’t. She cannot let Alduin destroy the world just because she’s overwhelmed by a bunch of stupid jarls and one, stupid Thalmor.

Her legs feel weak when she finally stands, and her stomach tightens painfully when Arngeir calls for the meeting to commence. But as afraid as she is, she is determined to see this through. She will survive this meeting, and though she may not survive a final confrontation with Alduin, she will not back down. This is not for the world, but for the Dark Brotherhood. Every task laid about before her is simply _easier_ if she thinks of it in that way. 

She’s the Listener, but Listening to Mother is not her only responsibility. She is the matriarch of her family, and as such, it is her duty to protect them, no matter the cost. If she has to die so that her family may live on, so be it. No harm will come to them so long as she still breathes.

* * *

Lumen does her best not to cower when the Greybeards announce that it is _she_ who will arbitrate the meeting. She sits up straight in an uncomfortable, stone chair when the gathered jarls argue that she is not equipped for the job because she has been seen in the company of the Stormcloaks, and therefore she is hardly neutral. But the Greybeards refuse to get involved, and the refuse to mediate, and so, the men and women of power have no choice but to accept the Dragonborn as mediator.

Things begin as dramatically as Lumen expects, with Ulfric Stormcloak shouting about the Thalmor presence. “You insult us by bringing her here?” he roars at Tullius. “Your chief Talos-hunter?”

The room erupts into a series of arguments and scathing remarks, but it is Elenwen’s smooth, imperious voice that quiets them. “I have every right to be at this negotiation,” Elenwen says, her eyes focused on Ulfric, and never once looking Lumen’s way. “I need to ensure that nothing is agreed to here that violates the terms of the White-Gold Concordat.”

Tullius sneers at Ulfric. “She’s part of the Imperial delegation. You can’t dictate over who I bring to this council.”

“Please. If we have to negotiate the terms of the negotiation, we will never get anything done,” Arngeir sighs, obviously not equipped to deal with a bunch of squabbling after a lifetime of relative silence. “Why don’t we have the Dragonborn decide?”

She breaks out into a cold sweat when all eyes turn to her. _“Oh gods, why me?”_ she wonders, knowing that her fear is showing plainly on her face, despite her best efforts at remaining calm.

“By Ysmir’s beard, the nerve of those Imperial bastards, eh? To think that we would sit down with that-- _Thalmor bitch_. I say she walks or we walk,” Ulfric says, and Lumen doesn’t miss how his voice shakes or how Elenwen’s eyes sparkle with mirth. The First Emissary is clearly enjoying being the center of so much commotion.

But, what to do? If Lumen allows her to stay then she can keep an eye on her, but at the chance of losing Ulfric’s support. Despite the nagging paranoia that something is very wrong, she knows the meeting will proceed easier if Elenwen is not around. Finally, after many moments of internal debate, Lumen says, “The Thalmor has no business here.”

“I’m glad we’re in agreement here,” Ulfric sighs, and takes a seat at the large, round table.

“Very well, Ulfric. Enjoy your petty victory. The Thalmor will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not think of interfering in your civil war.”

She doesn’t bother to disguise her audible sigh of relief when Elenwen leaves the room. After being so tense for so long, she feels _tired_ when she is finally allowed a moment to relax. It’s only when she notices Arngeir looking at her expectantly, does she realize she is to start the negotiations.

“Right, so, what exactly needs to happen in order for the Empire and the Stormcloaks to strike a truce?” she asks, not bothering to stand on ceremony. “I’m sure you all have come with a list of demands.”

“I ought to demand your head,” General Tullius snarls. “ _Assassin_.”

“That didn’t take long,” Arnbjorn murmurs.

“You won’t be getting any head from me, General,” Lumen says cooly, opting for sarcasm because it’s more effective than lashing out in anger. Oh, she _is_ angry. But not so much that she can’t think, and she needs to keep her wits about her if she’s going to throw General Tullius under the wagon. “You already imprisoned me under false charges, and _then_ you allowed the Thalmor to torture me.”

A tense, uncomfortable silence falls over the room. Lumen cannot be more pleased with herself. Rikke is scowling, and Elisif looks as scandalized as ever, while General Tullius is turning a rather interesting shade of red.

“How dare you tell such lies--”

“How dare _you_. I’m an Imperial citizen, and I wasn’t even given a fair trial.” She smiles at Tullius, because there isn’t much of an argument he can make to that. It’s not as if he can tell the truth; that Elenwen made a demand and he had no choice but to obey. “You treated me rather unfairly, General. But here I am, willing to be fair to you. That being said, would someone please make an opening demand so that we may proceed? I’m in a bit of a hurry seeing as I’ve got a dragon to kill.”

“We want control of Markarth,” Ulfric says. His calm demeanor is a stark contrast to Tullius’ impotent rage. “That’s our price for agreeing to a truce.”

“You dare to insult the Greybeards by using this council to advance your own position?” Elisif levels Ulfric with a glare that could curdle milk. “You _disgust_ me.”

“I’ll handle this, Jarl Elisif,” Tullius says, finally able to focus on the truce now that his attention has been taken from Lumen. “So, Ulfric, you hope to gain in council what you’ve failed to take in battle. Do you really expect us to just hand Markarth over? For nothing?”

“I’m sure Jarl Ulfric does not expect something for nothing,” Arngeir says wearily.

“No, of course not. That would be entirely out of character,” Rikke mutters.

“Mind your tongue, woman,” Galmar growls, looking every bit like an angry bear.

“I don’t expect to be given anything for free,” Ulfric says. “What is your demand, Tullius?”

“We want Riften,” the general snaps. “It must be returned to Imperial control before I will even consider calling a truce!”

Arguments break out of both sides, the room ringing with dozen angry voices. Lumen can feel a headache coming on from all the noise and the sheer stubbornness of these damn jarls. She wonders if she should rid the world of politicians when she gets done with the dragons.

“Knock it off!” she shouts, lacing her voice with just enough of her _thu’um_ to rattle the room. “Shor’s fucking balls! You sound like a bunch of children squabbling over toys! All I ask is that you people stop fighting for one day! One. Fucking. Day!” She slams her fist on the table to punctuate each word. “You’re lucky Alduin is biding his time, otherwise you wouldn’t even have land to fight over!”

Delphine couldn't look more pleased. Paarthurnax may have caused a divide between the two women, but the Breton will always appreciate Lumen’s temper when it’s not aimed at her.

“She’s right,” Esbern says, standing up to address the room. “The fate of the world hangs in the balance and here you sit, arguing about _nothing_! Don't you understand what the return of the dragons means? Alduin has returned! The World-Eater! Even now, he’s in Sovngarde, devouring the souls of your fallen comrades! He grows more powerful with every soldier slain in your pointless war! Can you not put aside your hatred for even one moment in the face of this mortal danger?”

Lumen glances around at the faces of everyone gathered. General Tullius looks as skeptical as she expects him to, but the Nords have their attention focused on Esbern. Interestingly enough, Elisif has gone sheet white at the mention of Alduin in Sovngarde. Lumen wonders if she is perhaps worrying about the soul of her slain husband. Even Legate Rikke looks like she’s about to be sick.

“I don’t know about the end of the world, but I will admit that this dragon situation has gotten out of hand,” General Tullius sighs. “My men spend just as much time fighting dragons as they do fighting Stormcloaks.”

“We stand to lose more than just land if Alduin truly has returned,” Ulfric solemnly adds.

“Is it true that Alduin is in Sovngarde?” Jarl Elisif asks, her wide eyes turned toward Lumen. “I need to know.”

“Jarl Elisif, this is hardly the time--”

“It’s true,” Lumen says, cutting Tullius off. “He flew to Sovngarde after I fought him at the top of the mountain.”

“Pardon my asking, but how are you planning to reach Sovngarde to fight him?” she asks, doing her best to be polite, even if the General has labeled Lumen as an enemy of the Empire. “The priests say that only Nords who have died valiantly or in battle may go to Sovngarde.”

She smirks at the underlying question. How is an _elf_ planning to break into the Nordic afterlife? “General Tullius knows my plan. He knows why this truce is important,” she says, tilting her head in question. “Did he not share that information with you?”

Elisif casts a glare at the General. “He failed to give me the specifics.”

“Oh, it is a simple matter, really,” Cicero says, unable to remain quiet for any longer. “Sweet Lumen is to capture a dragon in Dragonsreach, and the dragon will tell her how to get to Sovngarde!”

“So you don’t actually know how to get there? You’re just--” she stammers, grasping for the right words. “You’re just going to ask a dragon? Can they even talk?”

“The language of dragons is far more refined than the language of man,” Lumen says. “But, yes. I’m going to ask him. There is a way for me to reach Sovngarde without dying first, and this dragon knows how.”

“But what if he lies?”

“Let the Dragonborn worry about the dragons, Jarl Elisif,” Ulfric says, only to endure yet another one of the pretty jarl’s withering glares. “Let us finish our negotiations so that she may do what needs to be done.”

Afterwards, the group calms down and terms are finally set. The Stormcloaks gain Markarth in exchange for Winterhold, and the Imperials are given a payment of weregild for a massacre supposedly carried out by Stormcloak soldiers. Tullius complains that the deck is stacked against him, seeing as the Dragonborn is already swayed to the Stormcloak cause. But Jarl Elisif tells him that it’s obviously _his fault_ the Dragonborn is not on their side, which amuses Lumen to no end.

“Madanach will not be pleased,” Cicero whispers in her ear, even though it’s not likely he’d be overheard in the loud room. All the gathered Jarls and nobles talk amongst themselves as they file out of High Hrothgar and head back to civilization.

“He’s going to be furious,” Lumen says, dropping the conversation when she turns to see Jarl Elisif coming her way. 

“We have not been formally introduced,” she says, offering her hand to Lumen. “I am Jarl Elisif of Solitude.”

Lumen takes her hand, not certain what she ought to do. The jarl proffered her hand as if she’s expecting Lumen to kiss it. But instead of a kiss, Lumen gives it a polite, albeit awkward, shake. “I’m Lumen of-- uh-- nothing,” she stammers, while Cicero laughs at her. “Just Lumen, I guess. No fancy titles here.”

Elisif smiles kindly. “Lumen,” she says, testing out her name. “I know your relationship with the Empire is strained, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What is it?” Lumen asks, because _of course_ yet another jarl wants a favor from her.

“You probably know the story of how my husband died,” Elisif says, her voice watery, as if she might cry at any given moment. “Would you look for him in Sovngarde?”

“I could look for him,” she says, sensing an opportunity. “But what are you going to do for me?”

“What do you want?” she blurts out. “Money? Titles? Land? I’d give anything just to know that he’s there and he’s-- well, that he’s all right.”

“I’ll do anything you want if you can get General Tullius off my back,” she says, the smile falling from her face while she tries to look as pathetically innocent as she can. “I can’t go anywhere without fearing I might be captured by Imperial forces and returned to the Thalmor. They tortured me once! I don’t think I can handle it again.”

“Did they really torture you?” Elisif gasps. “Lady Elenwen has always been so kind to me, I just find it hard to believe that she would hurt anyone!”

Lumen doesn’t hold back her unladylike snort. “For what it’s worth, she was not the one who tortured me,” she says to the young woman, who has apparently been living beneath a rock. “So, will you help me?”

“I’ll see what I can do for you, Lumen,” she says. “I cannot allow any citizen of the Empire to be jailed without proof or without a fair trial! I will definitely speak with the General about his behavior, and I will see if I can’t clear your name. You’re the Dragonborn! It’s silly to think you tried to murder _anyone_ when you’re so busy trying to save the world!”

“Yes, yes! It is silly indeed to think that sweet, pretty Lumen could be anything other than a selfless hero! Why Cicero has seen her helping Khajiit kittens from trees and teaching young Argonian hatchlings to swim!” Cicero says, only the be elbowed by Arnbjorn and shushed by Lumen.

Jarl Elisif’s eyes go wide at Cicero’s odd behavior. “Ah, yes. I’m sure she’s done many heroic things--” she clenches her jaw, her demeanor shifting when she hears General Tullius calling her name. “I have to go,” she hisses. “But, please-- look for Torygg.”

Lumen watches the jarl scurry away. She doesn’t plan to go out of her way to find the woman’s dead husband, but if she happens to run into him, she supposes there’s no harm in speaking with him. 

“Come on, boys,” she says, grabbing Cicero and Arnbjorn by their wrists. “Let’s set out for Whiterun. I’ve got a dragon to interrogate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the Empire got the short end of the stick, but that's what happens when you mistreat your mediator! (I never said Lumen was fair!) This chapter was fun to write. I think that much is obvious considering how fast I kicked it out. For those who don't know, my friend Heiwako is currently working on a fic called "Season Unending" and this chapter is mirrored in it! Only it's from Ulfric's POV and it details his experiences during the conference.
> 
> The next chapter shouldn't take me too long, either. Actually half of it is stuff I cut from this chapter. Reason being, I didn't want to have a chapter that meandered all over the place, so moving some text from the end of this chapter and using it for the beginning of the next chapter just works better. It's more concise, I think. I am trying to get better about that. Sometimes I get all these ideas and I just keep writing and writing, and the next thing I know, I've got a 10k word beastchapter and my beta is screaming at me. XD


	42. The Fallen

The path along the Throat of The World is a bit precarious most nights, but it is well lit and well traveled this night. Many of the soldiers and servants that traveled with their jarls left lanterns along the path, and the light of the full, twin moons helps to illuminate the path. In the darkest parts, Cicero and Lumen allow Arnbjorn to lead them, as his senses are heightened by his need to shift.

“You can just change now, you know,” Lumen says, watching him warily. “You’re getting a bit cranky.”

Arnbjorn blows out a breath to steady his temper. “Sorry, tidbit,” he says, his voice strained. “It’s hard to explain what this feels like. I’m just very-- uncomfortable.”

“Is it like holding in a sneeze?” she asks, genuinely curious.

“No.”

“Is it like really needing to pee when you can’t find a privy?” 

“Not quite,” he says, laughing. “Besides, everything is a privy when you’re a man.”

Lumen snorts. “What?”

“It is true,” Cicero says, nodding sagely. “Rocks, trees, topiaries--”

“Standing Stones,” Arnbjorn adds.

“Statues of the Divines?” Lumen asks, grinning at the two of them.

“Oh, _always_ ,” Cicero giggles.

“Anyway,” Arnbjorn begins, thankfully changing the subject. “I can’t shift here on the mountain. There’s nothing to hunt.”

“There are goats,” the Keeper says. “But Cicero does not imagine goats make for a fun hunt. They just stand around doing nothing.”

“Well we’re nearly there, anyway. Once we pass through Ivarstead you’ll have a nice, big forest to run around in,” Lumen says, catching a glimpse of Ivarstead in a gap between two snow covered evergreens. The town isn’t overflowing with people, since most of the jarl’s caravans have already left. All eager to return to their respective holds now that the conference has been concluded.

The rest of the journey down the mountain passes by quickly. Lumen does her level best to simply enjoy the nice evening, and the time spent with Arnbjorn and Cicero. It is far better to focus on the fragrant mountain air and the voices of her brothers than to worry about what will happen to her when she faces Alduin. There’s probably no sense in worrying about something that has yet to happen. Perhaps she’s foolishly emboldened by how well the peace conference went, but she wonders if she actually does stand a chance against that dragon. It is not outside of the realm of possibility, at least.

Lumen’s good mood is short-lived, however. Because when they round a corner and finally come out from behind a copse of evergreens, they are greeted by a sight that chills her to the bone.

There, waiting for them on the other side of the bridge, is a sea of Thalmor.

“I thought you were going to make me wait all night,” Elenwen says, stepping onto the bridge. “Seeing as you kicked me out of your little conference, the truce does not apply to me, and _you_ are wanted for crimes against the Aldmeri Dominion.”

“Tidbit?” Arnbjorn murmurs, watching her expectantly. “What do you need from us?”

“Give me a moment,” she says, grunting softly when her feet hit the ground. Shadowmere nips at her arm when she steps forward, and even Cicero voices a soft complaint, but Lumen will not stand down to the Thalmor. 

“Going to come quietly, then?”

“This is neutral territory, Elenwen,” Lumen says as she stands at the opposite end of the bridge. “Even the Empire was able to respect that.”

“Very well,” she purrs, walking out to the middle of the bridge and drawing a line in the snow with the toe of her boot. “That side is your precious neutral territory, and this side is not. So unless you plan to live on that mountain with those old hermits, I suggest you surrender. Or not. I wouldn’t mind giving you a swift execution.”

“What are my crimes?” Lumen asks, strangely enjoying this. “I’d like to know what I am guilty of.”

“You are formally charged with the murder of my dear brother, Malrian,” she says, her expression giving nothing away. If Malrian’s death did pain her, she’s simply _too good_ at being a Thalmor to let it show. “You are also charged with the murder of Third Emissary Rulindil, along with a handful of other guards and officers you brutalized when you broke into my embassy.”

“I enjoyed killing Malrian,” Lumen says, finally cracking a smile. “Did you see his body?”

“I’ll consider that your confession.” A tight smile forms on Elenwen’s lips, a sign that Lumen is getting under her skin. It’s something she never would’ve noticed had she not spent her formative years living amongst the Thalmor. 

“I am sorry I wasn’t able to give him the same attention as Rulindil, but I just didn’t have enough time.” She grins at Elenwen. “Surely you saw what I did to Rulindil, right? I hope so. I was rather pleased with my work.”

“Neutral territory is a cute concept, but the laws of Skyrim don’t apply to the Thalmor,” Elenwen says, narrowing her eyes at Lumen. “Especially when a wanted criminal is standing in front of the First Emissary and flaunting her crimes.”

Lumen tenses up. “I thought you might say that.”

“Kill her.” The order is dispassionate, as if the prospect of killing her brother’s disobedient pet bores the life out of her. “Kill her and kill her comrades, I don’t want to see a scrap of them left.”

The justiciars and guards gathered behind Elenwen step forward, and the First Emissary vanishes within the throng of black cloaks and golden armor. Lumen is dimly aware of Cicero shouting threats and Shadowmere shrieking his own, but they are lost amongst the bone-crunching sound of Arnbjorn shifting. She glances over her shoulder for a moment, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. Arnbjorn’s bones are breaking and reforming beneath his skin, which is stretching and tearing, and then regrowing before sprouting layers of thick, white fur. The transformation process looks horrifically painful, but the giant wolf born of all that pain is terrifyingly vicious, and most importantly, he is on her side.

Lumen turns her attention back to the fight just in time to block an attack from a guard who tried to take advantage of her momentary distraction. Somewhere amidst the chaos, she can hear Cicero cackling as he gleefully eviscerates some unfortunate Altmer. Arnbjorn leaps into the fray, and an ear-piercing shriek announces his first victim, which is followed by the wet crunch of a skull being crushed beneath his powerful jaws. 

The guard falls when Lumen draws her serrated blade across his throat. It is a boring kill, but when there are dozens of Thalmor bearing down on them, there is little time to add a creative flair. The sheer number of Thalmor does worry her. It’s four against-- _way too many_ , but it is better to fight well and die well than to surrender.

A spell flares behind her, and it slams into a justiciar she’d been grappling with. “What--” she gasps, turning around and preparing to attack whomever had managed to sneak up behind her, only to find herself face-to-face with the King in Rags himself! “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Saving your ass!” Madanach laughs as he summons fire to his fingertips. “Delphine swore something like this was going to happen!”

“And I was right,” Delphine shouts as she cuts down a justiciar. “As usual!”

Forsworn warriors leap from the shadows and converge upon the Thalmor. Some use spears, and others magic and arrows, but they are all careful not to hit the Dragonborn or her companions-- even the rampaging werewolf. The remaining Thalmor eventually call for a retreat, but the Forsworn and the assassins are not likely to abide by the rules of engagement when the Thalmor so blatantly ignored them moments before. The injured Thalmor are put out of their misery, and the ones that try to escape are taken out by Cicero and Shadowmere. 

A hush falls over Ivarstead when all is said and done. Some of the citizens can be seen peering out their windows, all stunned at what just occurred. The Forsworn begin looting the bodies, while Lumen tromps around in the bloodstained snow, desperately searching for any sign of Elenwen’s corpse.

“Where is she?” She shoves a fallen justiciar onto her back, only to be disappointed it’s not the one she’s after. “Where is that wretched bitch?”

“Escaped, most likely.” Delphine wipes the blood from her sword, and cautiously approaches Lumen. “Are you injured?”

“No,” Lumen sighs, abandoning her task to look after her companions. Cicero is shaking viscera from his boot, while Shadowmere grazes nearby, as if nothing out of the ordinary just occurred. Arnbjorn has shifted back to his human form, steam rising from his overheated body and evaporating into the cold, night air. His nudity is of no concern to her. Not anymore. She’s used to it, for one, and at the moment she’s too wrapped up in her own bloodlust to truly admire the sight of him.

Cicero is not going to pass up such an opportunity, however. “It appears that the cold air is not having much of an effect on your wolf,” he says appreciatively. 

Lumen makes a small sound to acknowledge him, but she is too busy admiring the sight of the slaughtered Thalmor. Blood pools around the bodies, melting the snow and oozing between the cracks of the cobblestone bridge. She takes a breath, reveling in the scent of iron hanging in the air, and she feels-- alive. If she has any regrets, it’s that she doesn’t have the time to play with her victims. These were simply gone too soon.

“I assume this is your armor, Arnbjorn?” asks a very amused Delphine. “Better hurry up and get dressed. We need to get out of here before reinforcements arrive.”

“Where are we going?” Arnbjorn asks, unconcerned with his lack of clothing, although he does accept his armor from Delphine.

“We’ve set up a small camp nearby,” Delphine adds. “It’s off the road and fairly well hidden. We should be safe there.”

“But--” Lumen stops herself. As much as she wants to hurry and capture the dragon and slay Alduin, she’s exhausted, and she knows Cicero and Arnbjorn are too. It’s better to rest now and deal with the dragons later, when she’s not dragging her ass. “Fine,” she sighs. “Let’s go.”

* * *

The camp is situated in the center of a thick grove. There are Forsworn warriors stalking along the edge of the camp, ready and more than willing to kill anyone who draws near.

Once the horses are situated, Lumen sits down near a roaring fire and begins to remove the heavier pieces of her armor; pauldrons, gauntlets, and boots. She promises herself that when all this is over, she’s going to sequester herself in her room and not leave it for a week. Just lounging around in her smalls with a bottle of wine and a good book, and both of her boys keeping her company.

“I heard you gave Markarth to the fucking Stomcloaks!” Madanach stomps toward her, looking like he’s mere seconds away from setting her on fire. “And for what? For _Winterhold_? There’s nothing in Winterhold!”

“The mages college is in Winterhold,” she points out. “That’s something.”

“It’s nothing compared to the silver mines!”

“This way your people get to kill a bunch of Nords rather than Imperials. The Nords are your preferred victims, yeah?” 

“I’ll be adding _Bosmer_ to that list if you don’t watch it, missy!”

“Well it’s not as if the city was going to be handed over to you!” Lumen snaps, not in the mood to be argued with. “What did you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to do something about these damn dragons!” He spits into the fire, which sizzles and pops. “And I expect the Empire to trade Markarth for something better than Winterhold! It’s insulting!”

“Well, General Tullius can’t be too far away, yet,” she says, massaging her aching feet. “You could bitch at him personally, rather than taking it out on me. _He’s_ the one who let it go for nothing.”

Madanach scowls at her. “Is that any way to talk to someone who just saved your life?”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Well you got it,” he snarls. “And you owe me an explanation!”

Lumen heaves a sigh. “Tullius agreed to it, but only after I made the Stormcloaks pay weregild to the Empire,” she explains. “So, _there_. The Stormcloaks had a loss as well.”

“Oh, well thank the gods for that,” he snaps, throwing his arms into the air in a fit of exasperation. “I’ll sleep so much fucking better now.”

“Stop being so damn dramatic! You’ve been amassing an army at Karthspire, so don’t tell me you aren’t planning to take the city by force! I don’t see how it being a Stormcloak controlled city makes any bit of difference.”

“Yeah, well, to just see it handed over to Ulfric like that…” his voice trails off, all fight gone as he just shakes his head in disbelief. “I suppose I can’t blame you. It’s not as if you could have done anything to stop it.”

He sits down next to her, uttering a soft curse when his knee pops. They sit there in companionable silence, watching the fire and listening to a conversation being had a few feet away, in which Arnbjorn is telling Cicero a tale from when he was still with the Companions. He was off on some job or another, and the happy patron paid him in sexual favors. Which meant he was thoroughly berated when he returned to Jorrvaskr with another notch on his bedpost rather than a sack of gold. Cicero laughs and tells a tale of his own, where he seduced a young blacksmith's apprentice while he was waiting for a target to move to a more private location.

“You two are incorrigible,” she says, not bothering to hold in her laughter. She’s glad they are getting along well enough to share tales of their exploits. That’s better than constant arguing.

“You can drop the innocent act, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says. “We know better.”

“Would you care to share your own stories, sweet Lumen?”

Her smile falters. While she does have plenty of stories to tell, she’d rather not do so in front of the Forsworn king, who was ranting and raving at her not moments before. “I’m sure Madanach doesn’t want to hear about any of that,” she says, hoping he agrees.

“If you’re worried about offending me, _don’t_ ,” he says, smirking at her. “I was young once. If I haven’t done it myself, then I’ve probably at least heard of it. There’s nothing that surprises me anymore. Besides, I’d rather listen to you embarrass yourself than discuss the goddamn Stormcloaks any further.”

“Do not tell Cicero you are feeling shy, sweetness.”

Lumen huffs. Shyness is not a condition she suffers from, but she doesn’t appreciate being goaded either. “I doubt my stories hold a candle to yours,” she says. “I know how to behave myself.”

“You’re stalling,” Arnbjorn says, thoroughly amused. “You _are_ being shy.”

“I once killed a man because he came before I did,” she says quickly, hoping to shut them up. “Are you happy, now?” 

While her admission is followed by snorts of laughter from Arnbjorn and Madanach, Cicero is not so amused.

“That does sound like something you would do,” Cicero says, sounding only _slightly_ fearful. “Surely the poor fool could have done something to redeem himself?”

“I doubt it,” she says. “He wasn’t very good at following orders.”

“I know I’ve said it before, but you are _terrifying_.” Madanach turns to grin at Cicero and Arnbjorn. “You two are either very stupid or very brave. What’s to keep the Listener from slitting your throats if you disappoint her?”

Arnbjorn merely laughs at the comment, but Cicero cannot leave it alone. “Cicero has never disappointed his sweet Lumen,” the Keeper sniffs. “Not once!”

“I’m inclined to believe you,” Madanach says gruffly. “All of Karthspire got a little demonstration of that a few weeks ago when you two decided to rut in the woods. That’s the thing about the rocky terrain of the Reach-- sound carries.”

“Oh, gods,” Lumen whispers, burying her face in her hands. She’d known they had been a bit loud that night, but she didn’t think anyone would actually overhear! “Can we please talk about something else?”

“Cicero wants to hear more about this!”

“Well, I don’t,” Delphine says as she joins the group near the fire. She gives the three assassins a disapproving glare, and Lumen wonders just how much of the conversation she overheard. “I want to know what your plan of attack is. Alduin is no ordinary dragon.”

“Alduin is going to prove quite the challenge,” Esbern adds. “Even for you.”

“As I recall, Delphine, you told me that we were _done_ since I refused to kill Paarthurnax,” Lumen says, fully prepared to come to blows with the Breton if she presses the matter. She is in no mood to defend her choices anymore. “So I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”

“You cannot blame us for wanting to see Paarthurnax brought to justice for his crimes in the Dragon War.” To his credit, Esbern has an easier manner about him when it comes to discussing Paarthurnax, but Lumen will not budge, and she’s not above punching out an old man if he continues to push the issue.

“By the gods you Blades are tenacious,” Lumen says. “If you want revenge, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”

“It’s not revenge,” Delphine argues. “He helped to kill and enslave our ancestors. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Not really,” Lumen shrugs.

“That dragon could turn on you and the Greybeards at any moment!”

“And I could shift into a werewolf and kill everyone here.” Arnbjorn sneers at the two Blades. “So what are you going to do? Run me through on the off-chance that I _might_ kill you?”

“This doesn’t involve you,” Delphine snaps. 

“That means _yes_ ,” Cicero stage-whispers.

“Actually, this does involve me.” Arnbjorn moves to stand beside Lumen, while Cicero comes to stand on her other side. “Thanks for coming to our aid, but we didn’t need you then and we definitely don’t need you now. So unless you have something pressing to speak with Lumen about, I suggest you leave her alone.”

“This _is_ a pressing matter,” Delphine says. “The Blades are dragonslayers first and foremost. We cannot just stand by while a dragon yet lives.”

“There are at least a dozen dragons ravaging the countryside, and yet the Blades only seem to care about the one dragon who is not doing anything,” Cicero says, sounding genuinely baffled. “And they say Cicero is crazy.”

Esbern holds his hands out in a placating gesture. “If we could just discuss this civilly--”

“I’ve made my decision. There’s nothing to discuss.”

Madanach heaves a long suffering sigh. “I’ve endured about as much of the argument as I can stand,” he says, getting to his feet. “Well, Lumen, enjoy your dragon-catching tomorrow. I’d love to see you off, but I’d rather not stray too near Whiterun. Try not to die.”

“I’ll do my best,” she murmurs, watching him leave.

“I hope you at least consider what we’ve said,” Esbern says. “Just because Paarthurnax chooses to live up on that mountain for now, does not mean he will always do so, especially if Alduin is no longer in his way.”

Delphine watches Esbern as he heads to his tent, and when he ducks inside she turns back to the group. “You surprise me, Lumen,” she says lowly. “I didn’t know assassins refused to kill certain marks based on favoritism.” The three assassins tense up at her words, and she just laughs. “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not like it was hard to figure out. You three are too shady to be normal mercenaries, which is what I initially assumed. It’s the way you three fight that gave it away.”

“And?” Lumen asks, doing her level best to remain calm and collected. Going toe-to-toe with Delphine is something she'd rather not have to do. That woman could kick her ass in a fair fight, and while she rarely fights fair, she’d rather not have to tangle with Delphine just yet.

“I came to your aid today because I want Alduin dead as much as you do,” she explains. “But when this is over, we are no longer allies. I cannot associate with dragon sympathizers, and I definitely cannot associate with assassins.” That said, Delphine does not give Lumen a chance to respond. Instead, she just turns on her heel and strides toward her side of the camp, leaving the three assassins to their own devices.

“That was unpleasant,” Cicero says, glaring at Delphine’s retreating form. “Cicero could rid you of these Blades if you wish, sweet Lumen. You need only ask.”

“I think that would be more trouble than it’s worth,” she says, staring into the flames of the waning fire. “Madanach isn’t the only one building an army. You remember how many recruits were at Sky Haven temple, don’t you? Delphine and Esbern would be missed, and unfortunately, I think we would be the obvious suspects. I think I’m wanted for enough murders, thank you very much.”

“A simple “no” would have sufficed,” he sighs, folding his arms and shuffling his feet as he begins to sulk. “Cicero never gets to do anything fun.”

“Quit pouting. You get to do fun things all the time.” Arnbjorn just shakes his head, and sits down next to Lumen. “Ignore the Blades. Once you’ve taken care of Alduin, there is absolutely no reason for you to have any more contact with them. They’re a non-issue.”

“Yeah,” she says, trying to ignore the way her chest tightens at the very thought. Tomorrow she is to capture a dragon, and afterwards she has to try to kill an immortal god. 

Exhaustion is creeping over her mind like a fog, even though she’s been valiantly fighting against the need to sleep for hours. She just wants more time in the present moment. She wants more time with Arnbjorn, and more time with Cicero, but what she wants doesn’t matter. Her destiny was decided a long time ago, and she has no choice but to face it.

* * *

Whiterun is quiet as Lumen makes her way through the streets, with Cicero and Arnbjorn following at her heels. Shops are closed and the city guards line the streets. Water has been rationed in preparation for the worst, and mead has been brewed in preparation for the best. All eyes are on her, sliding over her like an unwanted touch, and leaving her half-sick with the need for solitude.

They find Luka waiting for them on the steps that lead to the Wind District. The young mage wraps Lumen in a crushing embrace, his lanky arms awkwardly wrapping around her before he moves on to Cicero, and then to Arnbjorn-- only to be pushed away.

“I’m glad to see you are safe,” Luka says, nervously wringing his hands. “There have been some disturbing rumors coming out of Ivarstead.”

“They’re probably true,” Lumen says, motioning for him to walk with her. “How did your contract go?”

“Oh, _very_ well,” Luka says, pitching his voice low as they pass by a guard. “Belethor’s shop has been closed for days. The captain of the guard deemed the crime so disturbing that it _had_ to be personal, so Belethor was hauled in for questioning. You should have seen the guards investigating! I’ve never seen so many people vomit in quick succession. I suppose that means I did well.”

“I usually take it as a compliment,” she says, gleefully recalling Malborn’s reaction to what she’d done to Rulindil. “You’ll have to give me the details later.”

Cicero fills Luka in on all the details of their trip to and from High Hrothgar, including some rather convincing impressions of the jarls in attendance. He does not dare to impersonate Elenwen, however. Perhaps he is afraid of triggering Lumen’s murderous tendencies. Lumen walks ahead of them as she ascends the steps to Dragonsreach. Arnbjorn is at her side, with his hand resting on her lower back. 

“Are you ready for this?” Arnbjorn stops her when they reach the top of the stairs. “We’ve traveled all day. I think this dragon can wait one more day if you need to rest.”

“Stop worrying about me,” Lumen says quickly. “It’s weird.”

“Tidbit--”

“I need to do this now,” she says, anxiously twisting a strand of hair around her fingers. “I can’t have this hanging over my head any longer.”

“There’s no reason to be so nervous, Miss Lumen,” Luka says. “You’re just going to catch this dragon and have a nice conversation with it, right? That sounds simple enough.”

Lumen groans. “You’ve cursed me.”

“Oh, I have not! You’ll do fine!”

“Luka is right. A simple conversation will be easy enough! Cicero must try to remember that sweet Lumen is good at taming wild beasts. She even managed to house train Arnbjorn!”

Arnbjorn narrows his eyes at Cicero, who ducks behind Luka for protection. “Come on, tidbit,” he says, taking Lumen by the arm and leading her to the large, double doors at the end of the walkway. “I suppose I understand your desire to get this over with. It’s not as if the Stormcloaks and the Imperials will be able to hold off on fighting for much longer.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “May as well take advantage of the momentary peace while it lasts.”

The tension within the great hall of Dragonsreach is stifling. Nobles voice their displeasure to the jarl, all begging and pleading for him to put the needs of the city before the needs of a madwoman. The nobles are kept a safe distance from the jarl by at least a dozen beleaguered guards. When the guards see Lumen, they allow her and her companions through, which only increases the volume of the noble’s complaining.

Lumen smiles to herself. Let them be angry. Let them scream. She can’t blame them. She will either succeed and prove them all wrong, or she will be killed and they can all remember her as the dragon-summoning madwoman who was eaten alive. That’s assuming the city itself manages to survive an angry dragon’s wrath.

“Dragonborn.” Jarl Balgruuf stands to greet her. “Thank the gods you’re here,” he murmurs, low enough so the other nobles cannot hear. “I’d rather fight a dragon than spend another moment listening to all this bickering.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” Lumen says, sparing a glance at the jarl’s angry court. “Is everything in order?”

“Yes,” he says. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Lumen says, crossing her arms just to hide the shaking of her hands. 

“Follow me, then,” he says, as he gestures for his housecarl to join them. “Farengar has been working tirelessly to ensure the trap is in working order, and I have my guards on standby to help you with the dragon if you need it.” 

They step out onto the Great Porch, which feels even larger and more foreboding than before. Lumen’s stomach sinks, as does her earlier bravado, and she wonders if it’s too late to turn around and run away.

“Dragonborn?” Balgruuf is watching her with scrutinizing eyes. One does not successfully rule a hold without learning how to read people, and he has undoubtedly sensed her apprehension.

“Ready the trap,” she says, hoping her voice sounds more confident than she feels. The guards spring into action at her order, and she turns to face her ever faithful companions. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but you can bet this dragon will be pissed--”

“So what you are saying is that we should prepare ourselves for the worst and hope for the best?” Cicero asks, a mischievous smile on his lips. His good humor does little to mask his anxiety, but Lumen appreciates the gesture. 

“Pretty much,” she says, turning away from her companions, because if she may lose her nerve if she stalls any longer. 

She focuses on placing one foot in front of the other, on her breath, and on the wind in her hair. Anything to keep her calm and keep her focused on the task. The name of the dragon is on the tip of her tongue when she steps out onto the balcony. She fills her lungs with the fresh air carried on the high winds, and she forces herself to feel confident even though she is not. Her voice has to feel powerful. This is a challenge. The dragon may not bother to come at all if there is a hint of uncertainty in her _thu’um_. They are proud creatures, and a proud, self-respecting dragon will not rise to a challenge set forth by a weakling. It would not be worth its time.

**_“OD-AH-VIING!”_ **

A hush falls over the porch. The silence stretches on for many awkward seconds, before being broken by the hiss of a dozen whispers, some louder than others.

“Did it work?” a guard asks.

“Don’t be stupid! Of course it didn’t work!” another snaps, before they are shushed by their superior.

Lumen is just about to lose hope when a dark shadow falls across the porch, followed by a gust of wind and a loud, thunderous roar. “Dovahkiin!” the dragon snarls, his powerful voice rattling through all of Dragonsreach. “Here I am!” He soars past the balcony, his crimson scales glittering like a thousand rubies in the waning sunlight.

Her brothers are by her side within moments. Arnbjorn and Cicero are both armed with bows, rather than their usual choice of weapons, and Luka’s fingertips are covered in tiny ice crystals as the mage readies a frost spell. The rest of the guards fall into position, some foolishly running out to the edge of the balcony with their arrows nocked, only to gawk at the dragon circling above them.

“Get back!” Lumen shouts. “We need to lure it inside!”

Her warning comes too late for one guard, as he is snatched up by the dragon when he makes another pass by the balcony.

“Oh, good,” Luka gasps as they back away from the balcony. “Well, not _good_ , but-- perhaps the dragon will not be too hungry now?”

“He didn’t eat the guard,” Arnbjorn says. “He just kinda chewed him up and spat him out.”

“Not helping,” Cicero growls, sticking close to Lumen’s side. “Sweet Lumen will you please use your dragon grounding Shout now? The dragon shows no indication of landing anytime soon, and Cicero would much prefer it if the dragon were on his level and not flying around in the sky!”

Lumen had been hoping to avoid using Dragonrend. While she has always enjoyed causing pain; either in the form of a scathing remark or real, physical pain, she knows that people are less likely to cooperate with her if she hurts them first. She just hopes a dragon will be able to understand her reasons better than a mortal, and when he soars past the balcony again, Lumen jumps on the chance to unleash the devastating Shout.

**_“JOOR ZAH FRUL!”_ **

Odahviing howls in agony before he lands roughly on the edge of the balcony. His bright green eyes are blazing with an ancient fury as he lunges forward and snaps at Lumen. She runs backwards, leading him deeper into the trap without breaking eye contact or turning her back on him. She has to show her strength, even though she’s terrified.

Dragons aren’t as graceful on the ground as they are in the sky, but they are still quick, and Odahviing is no exception. He crawls toward her, using his claws to propel himself across the ground. Cobblestones shatter in his wake, sending shards flying into the air as he follows his prey deeper into the trap.

“Now!” Irileth shouts. The large metal yoke swings downwards, landing across the dragon’s neck, while two metal clasps swing down from the yoke and lock him in place. The dragon roars and thrashes, fighting against the trap before falling quiet and finally turning his eyes to his captor. He watches her expectantly; curious and enraged in equal measure.

Lumen stares at the Odahviing, barely able to believe that her crazy plan actually worked. Judging by the stunned silence that falls over the Great Porch, it seems like everyone else is just as surprised-- including the dragon.

“You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” Lumen takes a few cautious steps toward the dragon. Perhaps complimenting him is an odd thing to do, but she sees no reason to treat him any different from the multitude of victims she’s had tied up and at her mercy. The only difference is that this one might live.

“ _Zu’u bonaar_ ,” the dragon rumbles. “You went through a great deal of trouble to put me in such a humiliating position.”

“You have no idea,” Lumen says, repressing the urge to rant about stupid jarls and their equally stupid wars. “But all my trouble will pay off if you can tell me where Alduin is hiding.”

The dragon doesn’t immediately answer her. He merely flicks his tongue in-and-out of his mouth to taste the air. “What is in it for me?” he finally asks.

“I didn’t realize you dragons were the bargaining type,” she says, amused. “If you tell me, then I will let you go. It’s simple. So? Come on, then. Where is he hiding?”

“An apt phrase,” he says. “Alduin _is_ hiding. He fled to Sovngarde to regain his strength by devouring the _sillesejour_ \-- the souls of the mortal dead.”

“I am aware of this,” she grits out, annoyed at being told old information. “I need to know how to get there so I can finish the fight.” 

Odahviing tilts his head to get a better look at her. “His door to Sovngarde is at Skuldafn, one of his ancient fanes high in the eastern mountains.”

“Right,” Lumen sighs. “I’m not sure how Skyrim looks from the sky, but from the ground all these ancient, Nordic ruins start to look alike after a while.” Her complaint is met with some quiet grumbling from the guards in attendance, until they are shushed by Irileth. “So how exactly do I get to Skuldafn?”

“Ah, _krosis_ , there is one detail that I neglected to mention. You have the _thu’um_ of a _dovah_ , but without the wings of one, you will never set foot in Skuldafn.” There is a mischievous glint in his eye, and Lumen swears by all the gods above and below that she may end up killing this smart ass dragon before the day is out.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she groans, rubbing her temples to ease the tense ache that’s been steadily creeping across her skull.

“What is it, Miss Lumen?” Luka asks, brimming with excitement as he comes to stand next to her. “His voice is a bit much for my ears. I don’t know what he’s saying.”

Ah. Lumen often forgets that her companions cannot understand the dragons as she does. “I have to fly to Skuldafn,” she says. “And, just in case you’re wondering-- no, I can’t fly. There isn’t a Shout for that.”

“Nor are there any good spells for it,” Luka admits. “There have been attempts made, but they usually end in disaster.”

“Let me help you,” Odahviing says, and Lumen wonders if she’s going insane, or if the dragon is actually _grinning_ at her. “Free me and I will carry you to Skuldafn.”

“Yeah, right,” Lumen snaps, even though she’s excited at the prospect of actually flying. “How can I trust you? You were prepared to eat me before I trapped you!”

“You lured me in here,” he counters. “You are the one who deceived me, _Dovahkiin_. I have done nothing to earn your distrust.”

“And you would really help me?” she asks, not buying it just yet. “Isn’t Alduin your ally?”

“Alduin has proven himself unworthy to rule. I wish to see which one of you will prevail.”

She laughs at that. “So that’s it, then? You’re offering to take me there because you’re curious?”

“Is it so amusing?” He tilts his head questioningly. “Release me, and I will show you the world as only a _dovah_ can see it.”

Lumen takes a deep breath. She really has no other option than to take him up on his offer. He could easily betray her, but there’s something about him that seems oddly genuine. A type of honesty and honor that is so rarely seen in mortal men. It must be a dragon thing. “Don’t make me regret this,” she hisses at the dragon, before stepping away from him. “Release the dragon. He’s going to take me to Skuldafn.”

“Dragonborn, are you certain?” Irileth asks.

 _“No,”_ Lumen says to herself. “Yes, I’m certain. Release him.”

The gears of the trap groan in protest as the giant yoke is lifted from the dragon’s neck. Odahviing slowly backs away when he is freed, careful to make no sudden movements lest he spook the hyper-alert guards. It is clear that he has dealt with humans enough to know what will scare his prey and what will not. Lumen just hopes she will not become his prey once he has her in the air.

“I await your command,” he says, perching on the edge of the balcony. “I must warn you, once you have flown the skies of _Keizaal_ , your envy of the _dov_ will only increase.”

“That remains to be seen.” While she doesn’t think she’s afraid of heights, she’s fairly certain that climbing across a rooftop is nothing compared to hitching a ride on a dragon. She just hopes she doesn’t die of fright. That would be truly stupid. She turns away from Odahviing, ready to deliver the news to her companions, and hoping that Cicero doesn’t become completely unglued. The nearby guards step away to focus on various tasks, and even Irileth seems intent on giving them some room to speak privately.

“Do you think there’s room for all of us on that dragon?” Luka asks. “I’ve always wanted to explore a different plane of existence! Too bad it has to be Sovngarde, but beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.”

“No,” Lumen says firmly. “You’re staying. You’re all staying. This could be a death wish--”

“Which is exactly why sweet Lumen cannot go by herself!” Cicero snaps, stomping toward her and grabbing her by the arms. He holds her tight enough to bruise, but she doesn’t dare pull away from him. “Cicero is coming with you! The Keeper must keep the Listener safe at all costs. Even in situations as stupid as this!”

“You know you can’t go,” she says softly, hoping to reason with him. Gods, she doesn’t want to leave him behind, but she cannot whisk the Night Mother’s Keeper off to Sovngarde. If she dies, then Cicero must take care of Mother, find a new Listener, and keep the Dark Brotherhood going. “You’re too important. You know the Keeping rituals and the Binding Words. The Brotherhood will need you if something happens to me.” 

His grip eases, his hands sliding down her arms to grasp her hands. “But what about Cicero?” he whispers. “Cicero needs you.”

Lumen swallows around a lump in her throat. “I am planning to come back,” she says, striving for levity, because the fear in Cicero’s eyes is too intense for her liking. “But we need to have a contingency plan just in case.”

“No we don’t,” he hisses. “We can go home! Just turn around and walk away from all this! I do not care about Alduin or Sovngarde or the end of the world. Let it end. Just stay with me. Do not leave. I do not understand why you are willing to risk so much for a world that will never thank you.”

“I’m not risking my life for the world,” she says, her voice shaking. 

“Then why?” he demands. “Tell Cicero what is so damn important!”

“ _You’re_ what’s so damn important you blithering idiot!” she snaps, angry at herself for not saying it better, and angry at him for forcing her hand. “Do you think I would actually give a shit about this world if you weren’t in it?”

“Um, guys… this really isn’t the time to fight,” Luka quietly pleads, only to be ignored.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Cicero snarls, yanking his hands away from hers. He takes a deep breath, preparing to launch into a rant, before confusion wins out over his anger. “Wait--” he gasps. “You are doing this because of me? Sweet Lumen, I am not _that_ important.”

“Important enough to risk my life for,” Lumen says with a weary laugh. “Important enough to kill a god for.”

He swallows hard. “But--”

“But, why?” she interrupts, because she is hardly able to withstand the needy, plaintive tone in his voice. All she wants to do is wrap her arms around him and promise him that everything will be okay, but she can’t. She will not make him promises she cannot keep. “Because for some stupid reason that is beyond all comprehension I--” she draws in a breath, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his gaze. “I love you,” she says, the words sounding bizarre and foreign on her spiteful tongue. “And that’s all the reason I need.”

Cicero is too stunned to react, he merely gapes at her, wide-eyed and silent. Arnbjorn lifts an eyebrow, studying at the two of them with an enigmatic smile, and then there is Luka, who is swooping down on the two of them, arms open for an embrace.

“Miss Lumen that was-- ack!”

Lumen grabs the collar of his robe and drags him aside. “Take care of him,” she says quickly, her cheeks blazing. “He doesn’t do well alone.”

“Yes, of course,” he says, straightening his robe when she lets him go.

She turns back to Cicero, who does not look particularly happy. Perhaps if a dragon wasn’t patiently waiting to cart her off to her doom, he’d be a little more thrilled by her admission? There could be a multitude of reasons for his pained expression. Has anyone ever told him that before? Has he ever wanted to hear it? She always feared that giving a name to whatever it is between them might cheapen it-- so _has_ she?

“Um, so--” she clears her throat. “I should go.”

Cicero surges forward, capturing her lips in a fierce kiss. It is a kiss born of desperation and sorrow, and not one she is likely to forget any time soon. It is a kiss that would linger on and on if they were not burdened by an impatient audience and a curious dragon. Time seems to move at a cruel, quick pace as Cicero pulls away. All Lumen wants to do is revel in the warm caress of his breath; the way it passes over her lips before he kisses her, giving her a moment to breathe him in. She wants _more time_ to study the fine lines that crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he laughs, and the deep furrows that run across his brow when he scowls. She _wants_ \-- oh, it doesn’t matter what she wants. Because she just made a fool of herself and there’s a god that needs to be killed, and if she doesn’t turn away and go _now_ , then she never will.

“I should go.” She turns away, desperately trying to ignore the ache within her chest.

“Go with her!” Cicero rounds on Arnbjorn. “If she refuses to let me go, then you must! Keep her safe and bring her back alive! Otherwise Cicero will have a new wolfskin rug!”

“The threats aren’t necessary, little man,” Arnbjorn growls.

Lumen doesn’t look back to see if he’s following her. She hopes he is. As much as she doesn’t want to risk Cicero on this foolish journey, she does not want to go it alone. If she and Arnbjorn happen to perish, the Dark Brotherhood will at least be able to continue on. The loss of the Listener would be a devastating one, but the Brotherhood will be able to recover as long as there is a Keeper. Without Cicero’s endless devotion, Mother would be nothing more than bone and dust, and the Dark Brotherhood would be only a memory. He may not think it, but he is infinitely more valuable to the Brotherhood than she is.

“Are you ready, _Dovahkiin_?” Odahviing asks. “I grow weary of waiting.”

“I’m ready,” she says, as a thoroughly harassed Arnbjorn appears at her side. “I hope you don’t mind an extra passenger.”

“The _joor_ will not slow me down,” he says, lowering his neck so they can easily climb on. “Come, _Dovahkiin_. Let us go. I yearn to be in the skies once more.”

She glances at Arnbjorn. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” 

“I’m more afraid of your clown’s inflated ego,” he says, guiding her closer to the dragon. “I can’t believe you told him you were saving the world for him. He’s going to be _insufferable_ now.”

“It’s more than just _that_ , but--” she sighs, knowing damn well that Cicero will omit the rest and just focus on what he wants to hear. It’s not as if she can deny that his presence in her life is a huge part of why she’s facing this problem, rather than hiding from it as she is known to do. “Oh, nevermind.”

Lumen climbs on Odahviing and settles herself behind his head, her hands on his horns for support. Arnbjorn presses close to her back, gripping a pair of spines protruding from the dragon’s neck and whispering a quiet plea to the Night Mother to keep them safe. There is no time for Lumen to offer her own prayers, or to entertain a second thought. Once they are settled on his neck, the dragon drops off the ledge of the balcony, his large, leathery wings carrying the two assassins into the clouds, and far away from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last part is a scene that’s been in my head since chapter one, I’m not even kidding lol. It feels good to finally write it out. I hope I adequately explained why Lumen could not take Cicero with her. I think I did, but I’m feeling a little paranoid about it.
> 
> Don’t worry about Cicero being left behind (honestly, he would have hated Sovngarde.  
> .) The next chapter will be from various POV’s. Skuldafn is a fun level, but writing about it… is boring. So I’ll throw in some Cicero and Luka shenanigans and that will make things fun, yes? :D


	43. The World-Eater's Eyrie

Lumen was thirteen when she first tried to fly.

She was not stupid. Of course she knew that elves could not fly, but that did not stop her from climbing to the roof of Malrian’s mansion and throwing herself off the edge. A part of her heart that was still childish had hoped the winds might see fit to carry her off. It was worth risking her life if it meant she might be free, and if she truly could not fly, well-- there was freedom in death, too.

Instead of freedom, her little stunt earned her a broken arm, a sprained ankle, and an extra helping of petty torments. Malrian was no fool. He had seen her failed suicide attempt for what it truly was, and he would not allow her to escape him, even in death. Her foolishness had cost her what little privacy she was afforded.

She never thought to fly again, but then Odahviing changed everything.

The nature of dragons is not easy to understand, even for the Dragonborn. Chaos is the easiest definition to grasp at when one only sees them as fire-breathing lizards; razing villages and killing livestock. Lumen is guilty of this train of thought, even though she knows they are not the mindless purveyors of destruction that the Blades accuse them of being. Sometimes it is hard for her to see them differently when she’s so used to tooth and claw coming her way.

Paarthurnax is unique among dragons; choosing peace to discord. He would rather sit on his mountain, teaching mortals and watching the ever-flowing streams of time wash over the world.

Then there is Odahviing, who is tired of waiting. He has not cast in his lot with Alduin or the Dragonborn. Instead, he is content to aid the battle just so he can know the outcome, even at the cost of his pride.

Lumen cannot call the dragons evil, as so many do. Up so high, she can understand why they see man and mer as mere pests. From up here, people look like ants swarming a body of something still alive, still beautiful, and would she not swat them away if she could? Would she not choose the world over man? There was a time when she would have. A time before her family. Love is a selfish thing, and her family has made her even more selfish. She wants more time with them and she’s willing to let the still living body be overrun if it means she can save those closest to her heart.

There is little time to wonder if her choice is right or wrong as the dragon makes his dizzying descent, she clings to him as he falls through the sky. The air whips through her hair, and it takes all her strength just to hold on. Odahviing lands roughly, the force of a sudden stop nearly throwing Lumen and Arnbjorn from his back.

“I don’t think I like landing very much,” Lumen gasps as Arnbjorn helps her down from the dragon’s neck. Her legs are unsteady and her heart is fluttering against her ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. The only thing keeping her from a full-blown panic attack is the solid ground beneath her feet.

“This is as far as I can take you,” Odahviing says, uncaring or unaware of Lumen’s current state. “ _Krif voth ahkrin_. I will look for your return, or Alduin's.” With that, the dragon takes off into the starry night.

“Well isn’t he just a ray of sunshine on a dark, cloudy day?” she grumbles. Her bad mood fueled by the fact that she is tired and more than a little overwhelmed. Skuldafn looms all around them, brimming with the undead and dragons, and Sithis only knows what else. There is a flood of magic streaming to the heavens from the uppermost portion of the structure. The portal, most likely.

“Keep it together, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says, resting his hand against her back. “We have a monumental task ahead of us. There are plenty of dragons here, but the draugr are going to be the worst of it. I can hear them scuffling around. There are so many, I can’t even make an estimate.”

“Are you scared?” she asks, glancing up at him.

“I am not scared, but neither am I foolish enough to greet danger with open arms.” He goes quiet for a moment, his eyes falling on the gout of magic pouring from the top of the ruin. “I am worried, however. You seem so certain that you are going to die, I don’t want you to do anything careless or stupid. There’s no sense in throwing your life away.”

“Do you think I’m not?” She gestures lazily at the ruin before them. “On the off-chance that I survive this place, I still have to fight Alduin. Who knows how strong he’s become since the last time. Do you really think he won’t kill me? He almost killed Cicero!”

“Cicero almost got himself killed because he was too focused on keeping you safe to worry about his own safety,” Arnbjorn says, folding his arms across his broad chest and leveling her with a stern glare. “And for what it’s worth, I do believe you’re going to survive this place, and I do believe you're going to defeat Alduin. Do you really think I’m going to just stand aside and let you die?”

“Well, no, but you may not have a choice.”

Arnbjorn blows out a frustrated breath. “Now you’re just being contrary for the sake of it,” he grumbles. “Don’t focus on assumptions of what might happen. Just focus on staying alive, failing that, focus on the people who _need_ you. The Dark Brotherhood needs a Listener. Cicero needs you, and I--” he clears his throat. “Well-- That clown is a menace when you’re not around to keep him in line.”

“What were you going to say?” she asks, preferring to tease him rather than argue with him. “Do you need me too?”

“I need you around to mind the mentally limited members of our family.”

“Is that all?” she presses.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, looking a little defeated. “If you want a heartfelt confession from me, then you’ll just have to stay alive long enough to get us home. Because I am not making declarations of any sort in a place that’s overrun with dragons and draugr.”

Lumen snorts. “That’s manipulative.”

“Yeah, well, you’re annoying.”

They both grin at each other, the tension between them dissipating like smoke in the breeze. Although the nice moment ends quickly when a thunderous roar echoes across the mountainside.

“Ah, wonderful,” she sighs. “I was wondering when the dragons would show up.”

The resonating sound of the dragon’s call triggers something deep within her. Something primal and predatory, something that will not let her just roll over and die, something that Alduin should fear. Her fear is a wavering thing. One moment she is eager to fight him again and the next she is shaking in her boots. It would be nice if her mind could just settle on one feeling, rather than running the gamut. But at the moment her anxieties over facing him seem stupid and trivial. She is _dovah_. The dragon’s blood flows within her veins like liquid fire. She is the Night Mother’s daughter, and she will not let some fire-breathing beast tear her from her mother’s side!

“All your whining must have caught his attention,” Arnbjorn laughs. “I’m surprised it took him so long to notice us.”

She turns her gaze to Arnbjorn, and while her feelings for him are a little more convoluted than her feelings for Cicero, they are no less intense. The timbre of his voice triggers a memory, made more intense by her overly excited state. It is a fight just to breathe; to stay in the present rather than lose herself in a fantasy. There is something strange about Skuldafn. Maybe it’s something in the air, or just some dragon thing that she is _too mortal_ and _too temporary_ to ever understand. Sight, sound, smell, and even distant memories are so vivid and real. They are so real, in fact, that she wonders how much of Skuldafn she is really seeing, and how much of it is a hallucination.

“Gods,” she gasps. “This place is fucking with my head. What is wrong with me? It’s like all my senses are being overwhelmed.” 

“I’d wager a guess that being so near so many dragons is having an effect on you,” he says, sounding a little concerned. “They are technically your spiritual kin, right?”

“They are more my kin than other elves are, that’s for sure,” she says, trying to calm herself. “Are you all right? It’s not messing with you?”

“I’m fine,” he says, shrugging. “How can I help you?”

“Distract me,” she says roughly. “Ask me stupid questions. Tell me a story. Something. _Anything_.”

“All right,” he says. “Let’s talk about what you said to Cicero before you took off on a dragon.”

“Oh, that was-- well, you know, it’s all so _messy_ , this business of having feelings,” she says lightly. “We should really speak of something else.”

“ _Do_ you love him?” he asks, obviously amused by her embarrassed reaction.

_“Like an addict loves an addiction,”_ she says to herself. “In the only way I know how.”

A sly grin appears on his lips. “Good,” he says. “Then you need to focus on that whenever you feel like you're slipping, or losing sight of yourself. Because Cicero needs you to return so you can say it again, when you can’t run away.”

“Why would you say that?” she asks, her voice meek.

“Because it is cruel to say it and just leave, and it will be even more cruel if you happen to die. Can you imagine? He hears the one thing he’s been aching to hear since he first laid eyes on you, and you just run away, never to return?”

“I wanted him to know,” she says quietly. “What if I get trapped in Sovngarde and I can’t leave? There's a way in, sure, but there may not be a way out!” It hurts to even imagine it; the absence of Cicero and only the presence of time.

Arnbjorn claps her on the shoulder, gently shaking her out of the deep, depressive spell that threatens to overwhelm her just as thoroughly as her earlier memories did. “Come on, let’s go kill something,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “It’ll help. It always does.”

She does like the sound of that, but her melancholy is tenacious and not so easily beaten by a good suggestion. “I’ve cursed you, haven’t I? I brought you here with me. If I am trapped, then you’re trapped too.”

“I can think of worse people to be stuck with,” he grumbles, walking ahead of her and reaching for his axe. “Now, come on. Stop whining and start fighting. I think that dragon has grown tired of waiting.”

* * *

Lumen’s swift departure on the back of a dragon left the Whiterun guards in awe, and Cicero utterly heartbroken. The Imperial has been standing at the balustrade for the past half-hour, staring at the spot in the sky where Odahviing finally vanished when he made it far enough away. Balgruuf decides to leave him be, and leaves with his housecarl and guards, with the exception of one Nord female in steel armor. The woman seems content to stand a respectable distance away from Cicero and Luka; close enough to guard, but not close enough to eavesdrop.

Luka has no idea what to do for him. Would he want comforting? Would he want to be left alone? He doesn’t think he could stand it if Cicero sent him away, but all the same, he can understand the need for solitude.

“Cicero?” 

“She’s gone,” he says miserably. “Sweet Lumen is _gone_.”

Luka decides he’s had enough of standing to the side and worrying, and he wraps his arms around Cicero. “She’ll come home,” he says firmly. “You know she will.”

“Sometimes assassins leave and they do not come home,” he whines. “Garnag left. Pontius left. _They left_ and they did not come home! They told Cicero they would!”

“Lumen is different,” Luka says, rubbing Cicero’s back and wishing he knew what to do. He has no idea who Garnag or Pontius are, but he can only assume they were part of the Cyrodiil sanctuary. He doesn’t know what happened there, but he’s heard enough to know that asking Cicero about it is a _really_ bad idea.

“I know,” he says, his voice muffled by Luka’s robes. “She’s the Listener. She’s the Dragonborn. But Cicero cannot stop worrying. He wants her home.”

“So do I, but we have to trust her.” Luka wraps his arm around Cicero’s shoulders, guiding him across the great porch. “Let’s go to the tavern and get a hot meal and something strong to drink. I think that will help you feel a little better.”

“Poor Cicero is not hungry,” he says, but he doesn’t resist being steered away from the balcony.

“You haven’t eaten in hours,” Luka argues. “Besides, Miss Lumen told me to take care of you and that’s just what I plan to do.”

The Nord in steel armor steps forward when they approach. “Excuse me,” she says. “I am Lydia, the Dragoborn’s _forgotten_ housecarl. Jarl Balgruuf has asked me to see to your needs while you are in the city, although I expect it will go as well as it did when I was tasked to see to the Dragonborn.”

Luka is not deaf to the irritation buried deep within her words. For a housecarl to be left behind is a severe insult. But to Lumen, to be gifted with a servant is an insult as well. It does not matter that the housecarl chose to enter her service willingly. A good slave is always willing, even when they do not choose to be, and Lumen would never accept another person as a gift. Perhaps if Lydia would be more understanding if she knew Lumen’s history, but that is not Luka’s story to tell.

“All we need is a quiet place to rest,” Luka says, hoping that the task of finding them room and board will soothe the disgraced housecarl’s wounded ego.

“Follow me, then,” she says, still sounding a bit put out. “I’ll show you to the guest quarters.”

“We are staying _here_?” Cicero asks. “In the palace?”

“You do not have to,” Lydia says patiently. “But you are the Dragonborn’s companions and so you are both honored guests.”

“It would be insulting if we turned down the jarl’s hospitality,” Luka murmurs to Cicero. “ And it might be difficult to find a room at the inn this late in the evening.”

“But Cicero must go home so Lumen can find him!”

“She won’t be home for a few days now. Maybe even weeks. We can take a night to rest.” Weariness is settling over Luka like the weight of a heavy cloak. When Lumen told him to take care of Cicero, he did not quite understand what a monumental task it would be. The Keeper is determined to wear himself thin.

Lydia leads the two assassins to their room in the guest wing. Within, they find two large, comfortable looking beds, and a washing table with pitchers of warm, scented water. 

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she says. “I’ll run to the kitchens and see what they have on the spit. Do you have any special requests?”

“Some of your strongest mead would be much appreciated,” Luka says. “We have some worries to drown.”

A hush falls over them when Lydia leaves the room. The palace is not as silent as the Sanctuary; there is a murmur coming from the great hall and the floorboards creak from the milling of the servants. There is the occasional bark from a nearby dog, accompanied by a joyful shout from one of the jarl’s many children. It is as peaceful as it can possibly get, but poor Cicero looks anything but. Lines of worry are etched across his face, his brow furrowed, mouth downturned, and his head bowed. Luka cannot help but feel like an interloper in the midst of his grief. He wants neither silence nor company-- only Lumen.

Cicero flops gracelessly into a nearby chair, removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair. “Cicero is sorry,” he says, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. “Cicero is afraid he is not good company right now.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be,” Luka says, offering Cicero a gentle smile. “I suspect you will feel better when you are finally home. We’ll head out early tomorrow, that way we can reach Dawnstar by nightfall.”

“Cicero would like that,” he admits. “It has been so long since we have been home. Cicero misses his siblings and poor Mother surely needs tending by now.”

They fall silent again, but this time the silence is more comfortable than before. It is momentarily broken when Lydia brings them plates of roasted chicken, vegetables, and a pitcher of mead. She leaves the two assassins to their meal, and after some coaxing, Luka finally convinces Cicero to eat.

“How did you get interested in necromancy?” Cicero asks, while studying a bone of a chicken leg, which has been mostly picked clean.

“What brought this on?” Luka laughs, a little taken aback by his question.

He drops the bone on his plate, his voice a little softer when he says, “Cicero would just like to hear you talk. You do not have to tell him if it is unpleasant for you.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says quickly. “No one has ever asked before. It’s a taboo subject, as you know.”

“Those are Cicero’s favorite subjects,” he says, a glimmer of his usual humor creeping back into his voice.

“I have noticed.” Luka settles into his chair, getting comfortable. “I suppose my interest in necromancy began with my mother. She was a mage, and when she noticed my own magical abilities, she allowed me to study from the books in her personal collection.”

“Your mother had books on necromancy?”

“Well, yes. She said it was foolish to shun any type of magic just because people were afraid of it. Fear of the unknown is just ignorance, and ignorance is dangerous, especially for a mage.”

“Smart woman.”

“She was.”

“What happened to her?” 

The question is cautious. Almost as if Cicero himself is afraid to ask it, or maybe he is just afraid of the answer. Maybe because it might remind him of his own past; of the family that came before his _chosen_ family. 

“She became very ill,” Luka says slowly. “I was only eight when she passed away.” He does not tell him how his father began drinking heavily when his mother showed no sign of improving. He does not wish to mention that he was alone with his mother when she finally succumbed to her illness. He cannot give voice the words because he cannot burden Cicero with his own lingering grief. It’s an old pain. It is not the constant, sharp pain of new loss, but the dull ache of an old wound.

The conversation wanes after that, and Luka is left to wade through his memories. He can still remember the smell of Windhelm’s Hall of the Dead. It smelled like all the others he’d been in since then. But that one had always stuck in his mind.

_The air is thick with the overwhelming stench of the perfumed candles that burn in a vain attempt to cover up the smell of human decay. His mother is laid out on a stone slab, wearing her best dress. She looks just like she did when she was asleep in her bed. Luka used to watch the rise and fall of her chest, finding comfort in the fact that she was still breathing. But she’s not breathing anymore. She looks so wrong. Her body is too still, and her skin drawn too tight._

_Rolff beckons him closer. “Say goodbye to your mother, boy.”_

_Luka steps closer to the lifeless body of his mother, glancing fearfully at the Priestess of Arkay standing nearby. He didn’t like this strange woman being so close to his mother. “She’s not really gone, is she?” he asks. “Couldn’t she come back?”_

_“No one comes back from the dead, son,” his father says, his voice breaking._

_He touches his mother’s hand, but quickly pulls away. He doesn’t want to remember how cold and lifeless she feels. She was always so warm before. “But, mama has a book about it,” Luka says. “With enough magic--”_

_The priestess gasps in horror, while his father grabs the collar of his shirt and gives him a rough shake. “Don’t talk about things like that!” he snarls. “The dead stay that way! Do you hear me? They don’t come back!”_

His father had destroyed all of his mother’s books after that day. He may have tolerated his wife’s magical abilities and strange interests, but he wasn’t going to allow his son the same kindness. But that did not deter Luka from practicing necromancy. He started small at first; thralling insects, and eventually working up to rats and birds before trying out the art on humans. Humans and elves were a little more complicated-- too many moving parts. But he always enjoyed the company of his dead friends. They were harmless compared to so many of the living people he had known. The dead would never laugh at him, never judge him, never get drunk and hit him. He always felt more comfortable with a corpse than a real person. But now he is surrounded by real people. Real, living people who would never hurt him either.

It is strange to have friends, and even stranger to have a friend like Cicero. A friend who knows about Luka’s bizarre interests and dark deeds, and will never bat an eye.

“You are staring at Cicero.” He leans forward in his chair. “Does Cicero have something on his face?”

Luka looks away, feeling silly for staring. “I just got a bit lost in my thoughts, but I did remember something.” He fiddles with something in his pocket, pulling out a folded letter. “Miss Lumen slipped this into my hand before she left. I’m pretty sure it’s for you.” 

He pushes the parchment across the table. Cicero picks it up gingerly, as if it might crumble to dust at the slightest touch. He unfolds it with care, swallowing hard as his gaze falls upon Lumen’s familiar handwriting. Luka watches in rapt attention as Cicero’s expression goes from fearful to enraged in the span of an instant.

* * *

Lumen sits on the edge of an empty coffin. The previous occupant had risen to fight her, but she’d had enough of draugr for one day, and she Shouted the dessicated bastard to pieces. Between herself and Arnbjorn, they must have dispatched hundreds of draugr today. She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to run this gauntlet of dragons and the undead and still have enough energy to fight Alduin at the end.

Arnbjorn moves around the room which had held at least a dozen draugr. He secures the doors, prods corpses with his foot to make sure they are well and truly dead, and then he busies himself by collecting scraps of wood for a fire.

They have to rest. Arnbjorn can keep going for days if necessary, but Lumen can’t. She doesn’t have that lupine restlessness, nor does she have a Nord’s stamina. Her body is so tired she can barely sit up straight, but that doesn't mean she’ll be able to sleep one wink. Not in this wretched ruin, and not when she’s _so close_ to Alduin.

“I think we’re getting close to the portal,” Arnbjorn says. “The draugr are getting a little stronger, and there’s an oddness to the air. It feels--” He falls quiet when he lays out their bedrolls on either side of the fire. “It feels powerful.”

“I know. I feel it, too.” Lumen pushes away from the coffin and makes her way over to their little camp. She doesn’t know how to adequately describe the odd feeling that’s befallen her as they’ve made their way through the ruin, so she doesn’t even try. The air thrums with an ancient energy. Pulsating like a beacon and tugging at her soul, pulling her closer to Sovngarde and closer to her fate.

“How long do you think we’ve been here?” he asks as he begins to remove the heavy pauldrons of her armor without prompting. “I tend to lose track of time in these ruins.”

Lumen breaths a weary laugh. “Arnbjorn,” she begins, groaning when the weight of her armor is removed from her shoulders. “I know you can sense the movement of the moons. What I don't understand is why you’re pretending otherwise.”

“All right, tidbit,” he says, sounding a little less cheerful than before. “Maybe I’m tired of hearing nothing but the screams of the draugr. Maybe I just want to hear your voice for a while.”

The almost plaintive pitch of his voice is completely foreign to her. She’s never heard Arnbjorn sound so lost, so needy. It makes her feel guilty for even pointing out his flimsy lie. “There is a rumor that some Bosmer can sense the movements of Nirn as keenly as you werewolves can sense the movement of the moons, but I don’t have that talent.” She glances up at him, a half-hearted smile on her lips. “I don’t have many talents, but sometimes when I Shout at things they catch on fire. So there’s something.”

“Not many people can claim to have that ability.” He settles down on his bedroll, his sword in his lap and whetstone in hand. “It’s safe here. We should try to rest as long as we can,” he says, returning to the easier subject of the business at hand, rather than the unexplored landscape of his vulnerable side. The side of him that might actually be a little afraid of what’s to come.

Lumen piles her gauntlets and boots next to her discarded pauldrons, lost to her thoughts. She’s been so wrapped up in her own anxiety, she failed to even consider how Arnbjorn might be faring. He’s always been so strong and unwavering. But just because he’s strong doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid. He just hides it better than she does.

After a moment of consideration, Lumen grabs her bedroll and drags it around to the other side of the fire. The sound of the whetstone abruptly stills as Arnbjorn watches her lay her bedding out beside his. She sits down, wrapping her arms around him without a word. He puts his sword and whetstone aside in favor of pulling her a little closer, even though they are about as close as their armor will allow.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks. “Feverish?” 

“Oh, shut up.”

They are quiet for a long time, both listening to the sounds of the ruin; howling drafts of wind and the draugr scuttling around in the rooms beyond. But more than that, Lumen is wrapped up in the simple comfort of listening to the gentle cadence of his breathing. Every breath as steady as his heartbeat and his resolve.

“I’ve been wondering how a Companion becomes an assassin,” she says, finally breaking the silence. “You told me once before that your former family found your methods unsettling. Were they always unsettling or did something happen?”

“It’s not an interesting story.” He shifts into a more comfortable position, resting a hand on her hip. “You’ve heard about Pelagia Farm in Whiterun? Well, it wasn’t always his farm. He purchased the property when the previous owner moved. The man couldn’t live there after what happened to his family, and I don’t blame him.”

“Don’t tell me they were eaten by a prepubescent werewolf.”

“No,” he forces a laugh. “The farmer had come to Jorrvaskr asking for help. Some bandits had overrun his farm and taken his family hostage. They didn’t want money. They didn’t want anything he could offer. So he came to us. I took the job, I killed the bandits outside, but when I finally got into the farmhouse--” he heaves a sigh. “I was young. Barely past my eighteenth name day and I hadn’t quite gained an understanding of just how cruel people could be. That day, I learned.”

“So what happened?” she asks, her curiosity piqued.

“I was supposed to bring the bandit leader back alive so the jarl could bring him to _justice_ ,” he spits the word like it’s a vile curse. “But I couldn’t. The jarl’s justice wasn’t enough.”

“What did you see?” she asks, although she isn’t certain she should. “You don’t even get this tense when Cicero tries to feel you up.”

He chuffs a laugh at that. “That’s only _mildly_ disturbing.” He takes a deep, steadying breath before continuing with his story. “The leader had gathered the family in the house. The farmer’s wife, a couple farmhands, and the kids. He’d killed them all. I think one of the farmhands was the last to go, the kid had tufts of his own hair in his hands. He must have pulled it out from the sheer terror of watching those people die. I’ll never forget the look on his face-- what was left of it, anyway.”

“So what happened to the bandit?”

“I killed him,” he growls. “ _Slowly_. And I did the same to many other bandits after that. _That’s_ why my methods were disturbing. I was supposed to bring them in. I was supposed to keep them alive if I could help it. But I tore them apart instead.”

She bites her lip. Arnbjorn may shun the idea of locking up a group of helpless victims and torturing them, but Lumen cannot say she feels the same. She’s done it before. “So how do you go from killing ‘bad guys’ to assassinating people?” she asks. “Sometimes we kill people who are, for all intents and purposes, completely innocent.”

“I _like_ killing,” he says, unashamed. “I enjoy it. I love the rush, the smell of the blood and the palpable fear. But there are some things that I would never do. I wouldn’t hurt a kid and I don’t particularly enjoy torture. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite, but I don’t really care.”

“Everyone's a hypocrite.” She stretches her legs out in front of her, wincing a bit when she flexes her sore and tired muscles. “Besides, I’m not one to judge. You heard all the lies I had to tell just to get Tullius off my ass. I think the only reason anyone believes I’m innocent is the looming threat of total annihilation. You just wait. Once Alduin is gone, they'll be after me for the death of the Emperor.”

“I think Ulfric would be willing to ignore Tullius’ accusations if you help him win the war,” Arnbjorn says, his fingers combing through her hair. The action is so _normal_ , if Lumen closes her eyes she might be able to pretend they are home. “You did him a favor by killing the Emperor. Surely even he can see that.”

“I don’t want to help him win the war,” she sighs. “I just want to kill this stupid dragon and go home. I just--” Exhaustion has rendered her nerves raw. There is liquid heat behind her eyes, and it takes all her self control to hold in the tears that are so close to falling. She knows the tremor in her voice gives her away, and she can’t seem to continue her rant for fear of losing what’s left of her self control.

Arnbjorn tightens his grip on her and presses a kiss to the top of her head. He lingers there; breathing in her scent and holding her close in their shared moment of weakness. “It’s all right, tidbit,” he says, even though they both know it’s not. “Don’t worry about that now.”

“What’s the point in putting it off?” She rubs her eyes, angry at how close she came to falling apart. “I’ll have to worry about Ulfric at some point, and I’d like to at least be prepared.”

“You’re overthinking. Just treat him how you treat anyone else who asks you for a favor.”

She stares at Arnbjorn in confusion, only to laugh when the thoughts finally click. “You mean I should make him pay me for my loyalty?” she asks. “In favors or in gold? That-- that might actually work.”

“It might. But first, we have to defeat Alduin. Once that is over, then you will have all the time in the world to worry about Ulfric and the rest.”

“Yeah,” she agrees half-heartedly. He makes this task sound so easy, it’s almost infuriating. As if she’s just going to waltz into Sovngarde, beat Alduin, and return home in one piece. Still, there is a part of her that cannot wait to face him, to cause him pain for what he did to Cicero. That dragon almost killed her Keeper, and that is a grievance the Listener cannot ignore.

“Quit sulking,” he says. “And get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

“I know.” She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth before curling up on her bedroll. He settles down beside her, his arm around her waist and his breath upon her neck. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t think I could do this alone.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he murmurs.

Lumen takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, trying to focus on the sound of her own heartbeat, rather than the rattling of the tomb. She misses Cicero, even though they’ve only been apart for a day. She has grown so used to his constant presence, it feels wrong not to have him with her. But she could not bring him along on what might be a doomed mission. Mother would not forgive her if she lost both her Keeper and her Listener, and Lumen would never forgive herself if something happened to Cicero.

It’s better this way. She just hopes he will understand.

* * *

_Cicero,_

_If you are reading this, then it means I am (hopefully) stomping Alduin’s ass into a paste and you are safe at home. I know you are probably angry with me, and I am likely to get an earful when you see me again. That’s okay. If that’s the price I have to pay to keep you safe, so be it._

_There is a possibility that I will not return. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s the truth. So, on that note, consider this the Listener’s final order for her Keeper._

_Live for me._

_Life is short, but it feels so dreadfully long when you’re lonely. Luka cares for you, so do not squander that gift. Mourn if you need to, but do not lose yourself to grief. Move on. The one thing I want more than anything else is for you to be happy. I bet you just rolled your eyes at that, didn’t you? I’m not sure how I turned into such a sap, but I’m content to lay the blame on you._

_So thank you, my Keeper, for warming my heart. I’m glad to have known you._

_Lumen_

* * *

Cicero reads the letter for the umteenth time, before finally crushing the parchment in his hand and shoving it into his traveling pack. He tugs on Shadowmere’s reigns, the daedric horse snorting a complaint before coming to a halt. It is early still. They left Whiterun before dawn because Cicero was eager to be home, but what exactly is he going to do when he gets there? What does the Listener expect him to do? Sit around and twiddle his thumbs while she puts herself in danger?

Fuck that.

“Which way did that dragon fly?” Cicero asks without preamble. “To Eastmarch, yes? That’s where he seemed to be going, but Cicero cannot be sure.”

“Yes, I believe so,” Luka says at length. “What’s on your mind?”

“There has to be more than one way to Skuldafn,” he says. “Cicero doesn't care what the red dragon told Lumen. There _has_ to be another way. The Velothi mountains are surely dotted with ruins that might lead us there.”

“But we have orders--”

“Orders be damned!” he snarls, only to instantly regret it. “Cicero is sorry, sweet Luka. He did not mean to yell.” He heaves a sigh. “I do not know what to do. I cannot be expected to remain idle while Lumen throws herself in harm's way. I should be there!”

“I understand. I’m worried about her as well,” he says, smiling softly. “Well, I’m in. I can’t let you blatantly defy her orders all on your own.”

Cicero smirks. “I should hope not.”

“All right, so we need passage through the mountains...” Luka bites the inside of his cheek, his brow furrowing as he wracks his brain. “Climbing could take days and may very well be impossible. There is a Dwarven ruin that leads very deep into the mountain, it is said that it might lead all the way through to Morrowind.”

“If it leads to Morrowind then it might take us close to Skuldafn! There might be a passage that leads there! The Dwemer explored everything! Nothing was unknown to them! It stands to reason that they made it there, too!”

“Well it’s certainly worth a try,” he says with a grin. “It’s better than moping around the Sanctuary, at any rate.”

“Right, so--” Cicero tugs on Shadowmere’s reigns, wheeling him around to change directions before setting off down the road which will lead them to Eastmarch. “Where exactly is this ruin?”

“I think it’s just north of Riften. One of the entrances is right there on the road. We can’t miss it.” Luka kicks his horse into a trot. “It’s called Mzulft. The College of Winterhold sent a few mages to excavate it quite some time ago. It was during my first year at the college, so I wasn’t invited to go, but I remember hearing them talk about it. Many claimed one of the blocked corridors led to a place of power. It’s possible that it leads to Skuldafn.”

“Sweet Lumen is going to be so angry when she finds out there was an easier way of getting to Skuldafn,” Cicero laughs. “If we’d only known about this sooner! She could have skipped all the trouble with the peace conference and the dragon catching.”

“It is only a _theory_ , Cicero,” he warns him. “I did not consider Mzulft until today, and it may not lead us anywhere.”

“I know,” he says, glancing at Luka and offering him a smile. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For what? I haven’t done anything yet.”

“For telling me,” Cicero says quietly. “You could have kept this to yourself and your life would have been easier for it, but instead you chose to share it. That being said, Cicero understands if you do not wish to go on a wild skeever chase with him.”

“What? And miss all the fun? Perish the thought!” Luka smiles warmly at him. “Look, we ought to stop by Riften first to get some supplies. I have a friend there. He’s a sellsword, and it’s possible that he knows about the ruin. He might be able to help us. Er, for a fee. Marcurio won’t do a damn thing unless there’s a guarantee he’ll make some coin.”

“Fair enough,” Cicero says, kicking Shadowmere into a full gallop. If they keep a good pace they will reach Riften by nightfall, and with any luck, he’ll be fighting beside Lumen in a day or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update! I hope everyone is still with me! :)
> 
> I had actually planned for Cicero and Luka to go on a different sort of adventure, but Cicero was so damn insistent on finding Lumen, I just had to rewrite the entire arc lol. He does this to me a lot. Cicero does what he wants, I guess. 
> 
> Apparently there is a doorway to Mzulft from Skuldafn in ESO. I’ve not played ESO, so I can’t tell you exactly where it’s located, but that little bit of information gave me all that I needed to give Luka and Cicero a glimmer of hope.
> 
> I hope you guys don’t mind the lack of action. There’s only so many ways I can write “Lumen stabs a draugr” and make it interesting, so I focused on the character interactions instead.
> 
> Arnbjorn’s bandit story is a nod to the Hinterkaifeck murders. It’s an interesting read if you like crime mysteries. But if you do a search for it, just be mindful that the images that come up are pretty graphic.


	44. Sovngarde Awaits

“Are you sure your friend will be here?”

“Quite sure!” Luka says, skirting around a pair of drunkards as he opens the door to the Bee and Barb. “Unless he’s on a job, of course. In which case, I suppose we will have to make due without him.”

Cicero wrinkles his nose when he is hit with the nearly tangible scent of booze and body odor. He doesn’t care for Riften because of the ever present stench of mildew and old fish, and the inn doesn’t smell much better. It reeks of spilled alcohol, dirty dock hands, and of yeast from the barrels of ale fermenting in the basement.

He follows Luka through the crowd and they finally emerge from the throng of people near a pair of double doors framed by benches. There is an olive skinned Imperial sleeping on one of the benches, an arm thrown over his eyes and an empty bottle of mead resting on his chest. It is not an unusual sight in Skyrim, but it is usually the Nords who pass out anywhere, not the Imperials. With the war going on, one would think an Imperial might be too paranoid to sleep out in the open.

“Marc!” Luka prods the man. “Wake up, you lush!”

“Touch me one more time and I will shoot a fireball straight up your--” the mage cracks an eye, his demeanor changing the instant he sees Luka. He sits up, the empty bottle clattering to the floor as a brilliant smile lights up his face. “Well, look what the horker dragged in! I haven’t seen you in ages!” 

“Hello, Marcurio,” he says cheerfully. “How is life treating you?”

“I can’t complain.” He looks to Cicero and asks, “Who’s your friend? You two in town for a while?”

“This is Cicero,” Luka says with a soft laugh. “And we’re not here for long, no. We came here because we want to hire you.”

“You can’t afford me,” Marcurio sniffs. “But I will hear you out. What do you need?”

“We need someone to help us explore Mzulft,” Cicero says, his breath coming out in a rush. He is so full of nervous energy, it takes all his will to stave off a panic attack. He doesn’t want to piddle around with conversations and negotiations. He wants to _move_. “Are you familiar with the place?”

“Well, yes,” he says, his demeanor shifting to something more serious when he picks up on Cicero’s anxiety. “I’ve been through it a few times. Usually with some treasure hunter who desired a little extra protection. Something tells me you’re not doing this for treasure.”

“No, we are not.”

Marcurio dusts off his robes as he stands. “Let’s go somewhere quiet to talk,” he says, motioning for the two assassins to follow him outside. He leads them to the markets, which are empty and blessedly silent compared to the tavern. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I have heard rumors about Mzulft,” Luka says, taking the initiative. “Specifically that there are corridors that possibly lead to Morrowind and other places. Like to a fane at the top of a mountain.”

“There are blocked corridors, yes, and I have no idea where they might lead. It’s possible that some lead to Morrowind or to this temple you are seeking, but they are caved in or blocked by rubble. You would need a small army just to clear them out.”

Luka smirks. “I am quite capable of creating a small army as long as the Falmer and bandits aren’t too damaged when they expire. All I ask is that you keep their limbs intact so they are actually useful to us.”

“Oh, right,” Marcurio laughs. “How could I forget about your particular talents?”

“You do not mind? So many people take issue with raising the dead.” Cicero tilts his head, considering the mage. He’s cocky, handsome-- _too handsome_ , actually-- and apparently someone who appreciates magic in all its forms. It is no wonder he and Luka are friends. If the situation weren’t so dire, Cicero _might_ feel a little bit jealous.

“Goodness, no! I couldn’t call myself a true master of the arcane if I didn’t appreciate the art of necromancy! I’ve tried to thrall a few corpses, myself. But no one can do it quite like our Luka. He’s got a real talent for it.”

Luka looks down at his feet, his cheeks turning pink. “It’s nothing, really. I’ve just had a lot of practice.”

“See? This is why I never compliment anyone. No one can accept it for what it is,” Marcurio sighs. “Before I agree to this venture, I want to know why you’re trying to get to this nigh unreachable temple. What’s so important?”

“The Dragonborn is what’s so important,” Luka says, casting a nervous glance at Cicero. “The temple is high in the mountains and it is only accessible to dragons, I have theorized that one of the blocked corridors of Mzulft might lead us there. The Dragonborn is there, along with one of our friends. We want to help them.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard stories about this Dragonborn! A Bosmer, right? I bet the Nords love that.” Marcurio narrows his eyes, scrutinizing their story. “What is so important about this temple? Wait-- no. I probably don’t want to know. I do want to know how the Dragonborn got there if it’s unreachable. Dragons, I assume?”

“Yes! She flew off on a the back of a dragon! She left poor Cicero _behind_ \--” he takes a breath, calming down when Luka lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We must find her.”

After a long moment of silence, Marcurio finally says, “I don’t know if I believe you or not, but as long as you can pay my fee, I will offer my services. I know Mzulft well and I wouldn’t mind exploring the areas that have been blocked for centuries. Can you imagine the treasure the Dwemer have left behind? Traps, too! But those are half the fun.”

“We can pay,” Cicero says, glad to have the man’s help even though he is not terribly keen on working with anyone who _isn’t_ Brotherhood. “And you can have whatever treasure we come across. Cicero has no need for it.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” he says. “Well, let’s go. I get the feeling this is not something that cannot wait until dawn.”

“It isn’t,” Luka says. “Thank you, Marcurio.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the mage laughs, he walks between them and throws his arms around their shoulders. “Now I want to know how a necromancer and a jester happen to befriend the Dragonborn, of all people. This is sure to be an interesting story.”

Cicero is glad for the distraction, and he tells the mage a highly edited version of events. He tells him how the lovely, heroic Dragonborn helped poor Cicero when his wagon broke. They instantly became friends, and their friendship soon blossomed into a fiery romance. He claims they came to know Luka when he saved them from a group of vampires with an army of the undead. It is all lies, of course. But Cicero would have to kill Marcurio if he told him the truth, and he’d rather not waste a valuable resource just yet.

All conversation dies down by the time they reach the edge of the forest trail. The forests of Eastmarch are rife with bandits, and the two assassins and their hired sellsword have no desire to attract unwanted attention. But, on the off-chance that they do, Cicero will not complain. He has been itching to spill some blood. He is furious and terrified in equal measure. His mind keeps turning back to Lumen’s confession, and it pleases him as much as it angers him. How dare she tell him she loves him only to fly off to her doom on the back of a dragon! How dare she leave him behind! He doesn’t care how important she thinks he is to the Brotherhood. What’s the point if the Listener dies? He’s seen the death of one Listener and he’d rather not endure it a second time.

The loss of Alisanne Dupre was a devastating one. Cicero held a great respect for the woman. Not only was she the Listener, but she was an impressive assassin even before she’d been named as such.

But if he were to lose Lumen…

He sucks in a shuddering breath, almost afraid of the swell of emotions that threaten to overtake him. This is dangerous. It is foolish. This is exactly why assassins _do not get involved_. Death is always around the corner, and heartache is a distraction an assassin cannot afford. He’d been intrigued by Lumen the first moment he saw her in the Falkreath Sanctuary, and he cannot deny that he wanted to pursue her for a bit of fun and nothing more. But she is no mere dalliance, no passing fancy that he will get over in the span of a week. It galls him that she’s gone to face Alduin without him. He _needs_ to be fighting beside her, to make sure she survives, regardless of what happens to him.

“We’re getting close,” Marcurio says, his quiet voice barely audible over the din of insects and the rustling of leaves.

“What can we expect?” Luka asks.

“Falmer, obviously.” Marcurio glances around for any sign of trouble. “Definitely bandits. These forests are rife with bandits. Any outlaw too stupid or too clumsy to make it in the Thieves Guild ends up as a bandit out in these woods. Riften seems to attract the unsavory types for some reason. I’m surprised the Dark Brotherhood hasn’t taken up residence in the Ratway.”

Cicero and Luka share a look, both smirking at Marcurio’s comment. “Falmer and bandits are of no concern,” Cicero says. “Just let Cicero lead.”

The path leading up to Mzulft is clear of danger, much to Cicero’s disappointment. But the ruin itself is spectacular sight. Large stone buildings and archways linked with tarnished brass pipes jutting out from the mountainside.

“It is bigger than Cicero expected.”

Luka breaks into a hysterical giggle, his mind heading straight to the midden. “If I had a Septim for every time I heard that--”

“You’d have exactly one Septim,” Marcurio laughs.

If the circumstances were different, Cicero would join in. But right now all he can think about is getting access to the ruin and finding Lumen. Turns out, getting inside is easy since the door has been left unlocked. The only problem now is finding the way to Skuldafn.

“Where should we look first?” Luka asks, his voice echoing as he steps deeper into the ruin.

“To the top, I think. But I can’t be sure. There are so many blocked areas caused by cave-ins and Falmer doing whatever it is that Falmer do. It’s hard to say which door will take you where you want to go.”

“Between you and me, I think we’ll be able to sense something. There is a portal to Sovngarde in Skuldafn. Surely we will be able to sense its magical ethers from this far away.” Luka babbles on, lost to his excitement. “I hope Miss Lumen will let me study the portal. I’ve always been curious about the strange magics the ancient Nords used. So much has been lost to us thanks to the ignorance of our forefathers and the cost of countless wars. It would be a shame to come so close to such an amazing invention and not bother to learn how it works.”

Marcurio looks to Cicero. “I know I said I would guide you through Mzulft, and I might actually explore this Skuldafn place if we can find it, but you are out of your mind if you think I am going to follow you to Sovngarde.”

Cicero snorts a laugh at that. “Cicero would not expect you to follow us there. It sounds like a dreadful place, anyway.”

“What Imperial wouldn’t want to be around a bunch of angry Nord spirits that have been sent to Sovngarde by his kinsmen?” 

“Cicero did not think of that,” he admits, but he quickly waves the thought away. Angry spirits could complicate things, this is true. But Nords are often as reasonable as they are stubborn. If they see that he is not a soldier and he is there to aid the Dragonborn, surely they will not be a problem.

Luka leads the group, talking excitedly about the Dwemer, while Cicero and Marcurio neatly dispatch of the Falmer they encounter within. The dead creatures are effortlessly thralled with little more than a wave of Luka’s hand before they even hit the ground. Once they have amassed a small army of undead Falmer, the trio and their thralls move deeper into the dark, misty ruins.

* * *

Rest does not come easy in a place like Skuldafn, nor does it come easy when one is overrun with anxieties.

Lumen takes a moment to wallow in her own self-pity when she realizes she’s never truly belonged to herself. Malrian kept her until she escaped, and she so naively thought she did so of her own accord. But now she wonders if it’s because the gods had claimed her? She leaves one master only to serve another, and another. Sithis has a claim on her, as does Akatosh. How many more gods will come calling for her soul when all is said and done? Will she ever be free? Or is she to remain a slave for all eternity, her service to one master ending only when another calls?

Her only comfort is that she is wrapped in Arnbjorn’s warmth. An arm his pillowed beneath her head and the other is wrapped around her waist, and a leg thrown over hers. She has absolutely no desire to move, but she will eventually have to; her bladder can only be ignored for so long.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

“Well enough,” she says, rolling onto her back to look at him. His eyes are clear and alert, a sign that he’s been awake for a while now. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough,” he says, mocking her earlier answer. 

Lumen sighs, untangling herself from Arnbjorn’s massive limbs. “What time is it?” she asks. “Roughly, I mean. I know there’s no way to be accurate while we’re inside.”

“Early,” he says, groaning as he stretches. “Not yet dawn..”

“How much longer do you think it will take us to reach the portal? Another day?”

“Possibly. This place is enormous and it would take ages to explore it in its entirety. The draugr are only here to slow us down.”

They fall quiet when they go about their morning routine of washing up, eating breakfast, and finding a private, makeshift latrine. They break camp shortly after, and leave the relative safety of the room behind as they venture out into another part of the temple. All the while, Lumen cannot stop thinking of all that is expected of her. Her shoulders are tense with stress. She’s afraid of stepping into a realm of Oblivion. She’s afraid of fighting Alduin. She’s afraid of failing.

“Arnbjorn,” she says slowly, still piecing her thoughts together. “Do you know much about the legend of the Dragonborns? Is it something that is predestined before a person is even born?”

“It is said that the gods know who the Dragonborn is before he or she is even born,” he says as he cleaves a draugr in two before it has the chance to fully wake. He fans the corpse dust away as he continues to speak. “But who can say if that is true? It’s not like the gods have told us. So, perhaps you were always destined to be the Dragonborn, or perhaps the gods chose you after they watched you for a while.”

“What about the Night Mother?” she asks as she casually plucks a circlet from a desiccated skull. “Does she choose her Listener before they’re ever born?”

“That’s a question for Cicero. Or maybe you could ask the Night Mother herself.”

“She’s not particularly loquacious unless someone has prayed to her,” Lumen says, choosing her words carefully because she’d rather not upset Sithis or the Night Mother. “I’ve asked her a great many things, and she tends to remain silent. I think her link to the mortal world is a little more tenuous than anyone realizes.”

“So what’s with all the questions?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just think it’s odd that both Sithis and Akatosh would place a claim on me. It would make more sense if Ulfric was the Dragonborn. The man trained with the Greybeards and he can use the _Thu’um_. I’m sure he wanted to be the Dragonborn. So why not him?”

Arnbjorn laughs. “Maybe Akatosh chose you because you don’t have any lofty goals. If you consider the teachings of the Greybeards, then you know Ulfric has already misused the _Thu’um_.”

“And I haven’t?” she snorts. “I kill people for money. I kill for pleasure. I have used my Voice to kill. I’m not exactly a great example of what a Dragonborn should be.”

“Maybe the gods don’t mind because you kill for the thrill of it, not for wordly power.”

“Killing is killing. It doesn’t matter why you do it.” Lumen shoves her dagger into the eye socket of a draugr. After fighting so many, the process becomes a bit monotonous after a while, so holding a conversation is rather easy.

“Maybe it matters to the gods.”

Lumen doesn’t respond, because when they step out onto the ramparts they are greeted with a veritable hoard of draugr. Some are firing arrows, others are coming after them with swords, and there’s even one that can Shout!

“Shit!” Arnbjorn grabs her by the arm and yanks her behind a stone wall for cover. “Okay, we need a plan.”

“I’ll take out the archers,” she offers, reaching for her seldom used bow. “The fight will be easier if we aren’t being pummeled by arrows.”

“Let me do it, tidbit. You can’t hit the broadside of a jarl’s longhouse.”

“What? Oh, _fine_. Here.” She roughly shoves the bow and a quiver at him. “You do it. I’ll deal with the big guy in the meantime. I’ll show him what a _real_ Shout feels like.”

With a plan set, the two assassins break cover; Arnbjorn running and firing at the archers, and Lumen running in the opposite direction, straight toward the deathlord. She quickly learns running full-tilt at a draugr deathlord is a terrible idea, because the creature unleashes a Shout that sends her flying backwards. She lands hard on her behind, coughing and gagging on the putrid stench of the walking corpse’s ‘breath’. The Shout is made of power, not air, but it still carries the scent of the foul creature’s decayed innards on the wind.

“Ugh, gods,” she groans, quickly getting to her feet and desperately trying not to dry heave. “You are a stinky bastard, aren't you?”

“Quit sassing the corpse and just fucking kill it!” Arnbjorn shouts as he lobs a few arrows at the approaching deathlord. He tosses the bow aside in favor of his axe, and he clashes with the draugr warriors approaching with swords raised. He did not have to help her, but the few shots he got in on to the deathlord is all the distraction Lumen needs in order to strike.

She throws a dagger, the blade burying itself deep within the draugr’s ribcage. “Yes!” she hisses, readying another. The second dagger twirls through the air, but the blade misses, and the hilt smacks the draugr in the face. She can hear Arnbjorn laugh at her mistake, but it stuns the draugr long enough for her to remove his head with Dragonbane in a single stroke.

“Oh, how I wish Cicero was here to see that!” he teases, but there is no sting to it. “You’d never hear the end of it!”

Lumen’s lips twist into a smirk as she collects her daggers and nudges the draugr’s head off the ledge of the rampart with her foot. It shatters to pieces when it hits the ledge below, drawing the attention of a few stray draugr they bypassed as they explored the interior of the temple. “They never look up,” she comments as she watches the confused draugr look around for intruders. “They only look forward. Look-- they can’t even swivel their heads. They have to turn their entire body just to look around, and they _never_ look up or down.”

“I never thought about that before,” Arnbjorn says, glancing over the ledge before moving on. “But you spend centuries drying up in a tomb and let’s see how agile you are when you finally wake up.”

She ponders upon that for a moment. She knows very little about the draugr, only that they were servants to the Dragon Priests, and they gave their body and soul to protect the priests while they were living and long after they were dead. “That sounds like a terrible fate.”

He grunts his acknowledgment of her words, but she can tell he has no interest in discussing the draugr. “I think we’re safe up here if you want to take a break. We’ll probably encounter another wave as soon as we go up another level.”

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’ll rest when I truly need it. Let’s go kill some more draugr.”

* * *

Watching a serial-murdering necromancer work his magic has got to be one of the higher points of Cicero’s life. They do, in fact, encounter bandits living deep within Mzulft. The bandits are no challenge for a seasoned assassin, a spellsword, and a mage who is overcome with excitement at the prospect of having new subjects to experiment on. However, the disgusting reality of what happens to a dead body when it is magically risen and starts moving about has got to be one of the _lower_ points of Cicero’s life.

“It is only natural, Cicero,” Luka sighs. “All bodies purge when they expire. I usually raise them after this process, but we have to act quickly. We only have a few hours to use them until the rigor mortis sets in. I’ve never found a way to counteract that aside from just waiting for it to come and go, and then raising the corpse. But we’re in a hurry, so...”

“Yes, yes. Cicero understands. Time is of the essence.” Death is nothing new to him, and he has spent the better half of a decade caring for a corpse. But the Night Mother’s corpse is sacred and blessedly clean compared to the corpses of the bandits. The newly dead are rather disgusting, in Cicero’s humble opinion.

Marcurio chuckles at them, and if he is disgusted or disturbed by the walking dead in any way, he does not let it show. “Come on, you two,” he calls out, beckoning them forward. “We’re not too far from the corridor that might lead us to Skuldafn.”

“And if it isn’t the right one?” Luka asks.

“We try another one,” come Marcurio’s goodnatured reply.

Cicero hopes it is the right one, because he is _done_ with this godsforsaken ruin. It’s confusing and there are traps everywhere. He is unable to appreciate it as much as his two companions do. Marcurio marvels at the architecture and the “clever” traps and machines, while Luka concentrates on controlling his thralls.

It takes the three unlikely explorers and the thralls less than an hour to move enough rubble to clear a way though. Initially they thought the debris blocking the corridor was a result of a cave-in caused by an earthquake, but as they make more progress, they learn it is a result of the Falmer. Mud and gods-know-what-else has been packed against the rocks, effectively gluing them together. When they make it through to the other side, they find themselves in a giant Falmer den.

“Ooooh, I _hate_ you.” Marcurio punches Luka in the arm. “You always do this to me. You flounce into town and you're all, “Let’s go on an adventure, Marc! There will be treasure, Marc! You won’t regret it, Marc!" And I _always_ regret it, because for some reason we always end up knee deep in Falmer!”

“Keep your voice down!” Luka hisses, rubbing his abused arm. “And I do not flounce!”

“This is not nearly as bad as Blackreach,” Cicero says cheerfully, readying his daggers. While the tiff between Marcurio and Luka is funny, because bickering that does not directly involve him is _always_ funny, they have attracted the attention of the Falmer. Which is unfortunate because he would like for his entertainment to continue, but he supposes killing Falmer is entertaining in its own right.

“Remember that time you dragged me off to that grove full of spriggans?” Marcurio blasts a Falmer with a fire spell before finishing it off with his sword. “And we almost died?”

Luka rolls his eyes, directing his thralls toward the Falmer. “Oh, please. We did not almost die,” he laughs. “It was fun!”

“You and I have very different interpretations of that word,” Marcurio mutters, but he smiles anyway. “To be fair, this is not nearly as bad as that time we stumbled into that cave that was occupied by bears.”

“No, it is not,” Luka says as he sends an ice spike through a Falmer’s chest. “That was terrible.”

Cicero snickers at the image. “What did you two do?” he asks. “You obviously survived.”

“We survived because we ran away,” Marcurio says flatly. “I’ll fight a spriggan or a Falmer over a damn bear any day.”

The conversation wanes as the three focus on fighting wave after wave of Falmer. Eventually the Falmer thin out, some deciding they’d rather run away instead of fight the three humans who have decimated the majority of their tribe. 

Finally, after endless traps, dead ends, stray Falmer, and the occasional pause to rifle through a chest, they come across what must be their exit. It is a large doorway blocked with rubble, but not so dense as the one before. The openings between the rocks are large enough to allow tiny flurries of snow through, as well as the odd beam of sunlight when there is a break in the clouds.

Cicero hangs back while the two mages inspect the blockage, both talking quickly and exchanging ideas on how best to remove the rubble. He does grow rather impatient after a few minutes of debate, because the answer would be so clear to them if they only took a few steps back.

“Surely one of you knows a spell that could force the rocks from the entrance, yes?” Cicero says, his impatience mounting. 

Luka scratches his chin, considering the idea. “We could alter our telekinesis spells and use them to push rather than pull. It might take a few tries, but if Marc and I combine our spells we should be able to manage it.”

“It might work,” Marcurio says, glancing up at the ceiling. “My only concern is causing a cave in, but I think we can manage to avoid that if we’re careful.”

“Let’s get to it, then.”

* * *

Lumen falls to her knees, still shaking from the thrill of battle. Nahkriin’s ashes scatter before her, leaving behind a mask, bits of jewelry and scraps of clothing. The damn bastard had been a tough match, but she and Arnbjorn won in the end.

“Are you okay, tidbit?” Arnbjorn makes his way over to her, limping, but otherwise whole.

“I’m fine,” she huffs. “I’m not going to have any energy left to fight Alduin after all this.”

“Just take some time to rest.” He glances at the portal, and then back to her. “Sovngarde can wait.”

“Can it really? If the stories are to be believed, then Alduin is laying waste to the Nordic afterlife. Doesn’t that bother you?” She wipes her forehead, brushing away dirt and sweat, but surprisingly little blood. At least she’s getting better at dodging. Cicero would be pleased.

“Your well being is my concern,” he says, kneeling down beside her and checking her over for injuries. “If the spirits of Sovngarde cannot hold a dragon at bay, then what good are they?”

“I don’t--” her words trail off when a very familiar figure ascends the staircase. She rubs her eyes, thinking her exhaustion and homesickness has finally got to her, because now she’s having some very vivid hallucinations. If her eyes are to be believed, then Cicero and Luka are there in Skuldafn. But this can’t be real, can it?

“Sweet Lumen!” the figure shrieks, bounding toward her and pouncing on her, wrapping her into a bearhug that is entirely too fierce to be anything other than real. “Cicero has found you!”

“What are you doing here?” Arnbjorn asks, and for the first time ever, he actually sounds pleased to see Cicero.

“We wanted to help!” Luka says. “So here we are!”

Lumen grabs Cicero’s face, and stares into his eyes. “Is it really you?” she asks. “I’m not just imagining this, am I? I mean-- I’m exhausted as fuck and I might be going crazy, but please tell me I am not so crazy that I’ve started to see things.”

“You _are_ crazy,” Cicero giggles. “But I am real, my sweet. Your Cicero is right here with you, and he is never going to leave your side again. You-- you are not angry are you? Cicero would not normally defy an order, but he was so worried about you! He had to find you! Please do not send poor Cicero away!”

“I’m not angry,” she gasps. “But how did you get here? This place is supposed to be unreachable by land!”

“It wasn’t easy.” a new voice says, and Lumen turns her attention from Cicero and to an unfamiliar Imperial mage. “It’s not a long story, nor is it an interesting one. But your friends here hired me to guide them through a Dwemer ruin. A ruin that happened to lead here, to this very temple! It’s not as grand as flying on a dragon, I’ll give you that, but it was an exciting journey all the same!”

Arnbjorn folds his arms, sizing up the stranger. “Who are you?”

“Oh, forgive me. Where are my manners?” The mage dips into a bow, offering them a cheeky grin. “I am known as Marcurio, Master of The Arcane.”

“No one calls you that,” Luka comments with a smile.

“Well they might if you’d stop ruining it for me!” Marcurio sniffs, dusting his robes off. “Anyway, pleasure to meet you, Dragonborn. Now if you don’t mind, I see an unopened treasure chest with my name on it.” With that, the mage wanders away from the assassins in search of loot.

“Hang on,” Arnbjorn growls. “Are you telling me that we could have just walked to Skuldafn? There’s a ruin that leads here?”

“Er, yes,” Luka says, tugging nervously at his sleeves. “Although I had no idea the ruin would actually lead here. It was a shot in the dark.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Lumen says, just on the edge of full blown hysteria. “I could have walked here? I didn't have to organize a peace conference? I didn’t have to get arrested or suck up to Ulfric? I didn’t have to stop a war? I didn’t have to catch a fucking dragon and fly the fucking thing here? I could have fucking _walked_?!”

Cicero slowly backs away from her, as does Arnbjorn, both men looking rightly terrified.

Luka bites his lip, not knowing how to deal with Lumen’s anger. “I had no idea the ruin would lead anywhere! I swear! I didn’t even consider the possibility until you had left for Skuldafn! I’m so sorry!”

Lumen flops on her back, clutching her sides as she laughs hysterically. Oh, to think of all the bullshit she had to go through just to get here! And she could have avoided all of it just by walking through a musty, old ruin! The Divines really have a sick sense of humor sometimes.

“Sweetness?” Cicero is at her side, brushing her hair away from her face and soothing her as best as he can. “Just think of all that you accomplished by doing things the hard way. You temporarily stopped a war. You killed Malrian. You caught a dragon and you convinced him to fly you here! You have much to be proud of! Cicero is certainly proud of you!”

Lumen wipes the tears from her eyes. “Oh, this is so stupid,” she says through her laughter. “It’s just my luck, isn’t it?”

“I certainly wish we could have done things the easy way, but that’s life.” Arnbjorn shrugs before stepping over to Cicero and roughly clapping him on the shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you both are here. I have a feeling we’re going to need some help.”

“Really?” Cicero gasps as he cuddles up to Arnbjorn, who looks like he’s regretting his decision to pay the jester a kind word. “Are you truly glad Cicero is here?”

“I am, but that can easily change.” He shoves Cicero away. “I’m going to check the perimeter. Make sure no draugr sneak up on us while we prepare to go through the portal. In the meantime, I think you and Lumen have a few things to talk about.” He smirks at Lumen, before grabbing Luka by the arm and dragging him away, giving Cicero and Lumen some much needed privacy.

“ _Do_ we need to talk?” Cicero asks, genuinely confused.

“Maybe.” Lumen fidgets with her armor, feeling a bit awkward. She could strangle Arnbjorn right now. It’s true that she and Cicero probably do need to talk, but that doesn’t make it any easier. “Look, um-- about what I said-- before I left. I hope I didn’t make things awkward for us. I just thought it might be the last time I would see you and I guess I just got caught up in the moment.”

“Why would it make things awkward?” Cicero grabs her hands to hold her still.

“I don’t know--” 

They are interrupted by the sound of metal crashing against stone. “Uh, sorry,” Marcurio says, struggling with an armload of treasure. He looks down at the golden goblet that fell to the ground, and then back to the two glaring assassins. “I’ll come back for that later. My apologies.”

Lumen scowls at the mage as he backs away. It’s bad enough that Arnbjorn forced the two of them to have this little heart-to-heart, but not having the luxury of privacy is making it all the more difficult. “Anyway,” she huffs. “What was I saying?”

Cicero fingers his dagger as Marcurio retreats to the relative safety of Luka’s company, but his anger eases when he turns his attention back to Lumen. “You were concerned that your little confession would make things awkward between us,” he says with a grin, clearly enjoying every moment of this. “Cicero would like to know why.”

“It will make things awkward if you don’t feel the same,” she says, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

Cicero laughs at that. “Do you truly think I don’t?”

Lumen smiles, looking around at the temple before meeting his eyes. “No,” she admits. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

He places a hand on her cheek. His smile is soft and genuine, no trace of mania to be seen. “Your Cicero loves you, sweet Lumen. He has loved you for some time now, and he will never stop.”

Lumen cannot breathe. She cannot do anything other than freeze up, sinking in the wake of so much emotion. It is like a dam has been opened and she is caught up in the flood. She never thought she would be able to love and to be loved again. But Malrian is gone and he will not take _this_ away from her, and soon enough Alduin will be joining him in the Void, and there will be nothing and no one to stand in the way of her happiness ever again.

Cicero takes her by the hand, helping her get to her feet. “Come, my sweet. Are you ready to kill a god so that we may return to a normal life?”

“I’m ready.” Lumen grabs the staff Nahkriin dropped when he was felled. She glances over her shoulder to find Luka staring longingly at it. “Luka,” she calls out. “Would you like to do the honors?”

“Yes!” he says, nearly tripping over the hem of his robe as he scurries over to her. “I mean-- if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” she says, handing the staff over to the excited mage.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, Marc?” Luka calls out to his friend. “This is your last chance to change your mind!”

“I am sure. I have absolutely no desire to traipse around in a realm of Aetherius while I am alive. I’ll have plenty of time to experience the afterlife when I am dead.” Marcurio’s expression softens the longer he stares at Luka. “Do be careful, won’t you? I always enjoy our little adventures. I would be disappointed if you were to die.”

“I’ll be careful! I’m _always_ careful!” 

Luka bounds up the stairs of the platform, placing the staff into the etched rune upon the base of the stone. Light explodes all around him as the gates of Sovngarde burst open. The power raging from the portal is frightening in its own right, but with her brothers here, Lumen will not allow herself to be intimidated by what’s to come.

Lumen stands upon the precipice, staring into the blinding light that rushes up to the heavens. She has never felt so calm in all her life. She should be terrified, but Cicero is standing next to her, his hand squeezing hers. Luka and Arnbjorn stand with them, ready for whatever may come next, be it death or victory. 

Her family is with her, and she will not be afraid.

There is no time to consider her next move, and no reason to allow anxiety a chance to overcome her. She closes her eyes and steps forward into the light. Into Oblivion and onward to Sovngarde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the final fight, guys! I'm excited! I'll be working on actually wrapping the story up fairly soon. I feel a little emotional about it. I've been working on this fic for ages! (Don't worry, there's a sequel in the works! Lumen vs. Miraak is on the horizon!)
> 
> I know a few of you have lamented about the lack of action/anything happening between Luka and Cicero. I haven't exactly seen a good place to work it in, and any fluff or possible smut needs to work with the feel of the chapter. Something will happen soon, though. I won't leave you hanging! I didn't expect those two to be a slow burn, but sometimes you just gotta let the characters do what they wanna do.


	45. Dragonslayer

Flashes of Aetherius pass before Lumen’s eyes, allowing her a glimpse of worlds no mortal was meant to see. She is swept up in a raging tempest of eldritch magic, her grip upon her life and sanity more tenuous than ever. For a moment, it seems like she will remain trapped between reality and the beyond, and before she can truly comprehend the dim horror of such an existence, she is unceremoniously dropped to the ground.

It takes her a few seconds to gain her bearings and even longer to will her eyes open. The ground beneath her is hard and covered in cool blades of grass. It feels real, despite the fact that she is within a realm of Aetherius dedicated to the honored dead. She takes comfort in the feeling of dew upon her fingertips and the weight of her armor on her shoulders. The sound of her brothers hitting the ground is another comfort. Their rough landings are followed by groans and curses muttered under breath, but they are alive and whole. The portal did not tear them limb-from-limb, even though it certainly felt like it would.

There is no denying the beauty of Sovngarde, even though a child of the Void is loathe to admit it. Lumen cannot see far thanks to the dense fog, but what she can see reminds her of the lushest parts of Skyrim. The air is pungent with the scent of fresh grass and mountain flowers, and the sky above looks like a bright, swirling galaxy.

“Gaudy, isn’t it?” Luka says with some amusement. “I mean, aside from the fog. Sovngarde is a bit frou-frou for my liking.”

Lumen grins when she notices Arnbjorn staring up at the swirling, purple sky. “Are you having a Nord moment?” she asks. “Do you need some privacy?”

“No,” he laughs, but the cheer quickly fades. “I never thought to find myself here, of all places. Is it just me or does anyone else feel unwelcome?”

“Cicero does feel like an interloper,” the jester admits, his eyes darting around for any sign of danger. “Sithis has touched us all. It would be foolish to think we would be welcome here.”

“Welcome or not, we have a job to do.” Lumen dusts her armor off and begins to carefully find her way through the mist, her brothers following close behind her. “Hurry up. We didn’t come here just to admire the scenery.”

Cicero appears at her side, his lips twisted into a grin. “Do you even know where you are going, sweetness? Or are we just going to wander aimlessly until we run into a dragon?”

“We are going to that giant mead hall just over there,” she says, pointing to the roof of an enormous structure peeking through the occasional gap in the thick mist. “I’m hoping we might be able to wrangle some of the spirits here into helping us. I know we were able to fight Alduin once, but that was on Nirn. We’re in his territory now and he’s been feasting on souls. He might be stronger. We need help.” Their first fight with Alduin very nearly ended in tragedy. She frowns when a vision of a wounded Cicero flashes through her mind. She’ll never forget how he looked when he was bleeding out on top of the Throat of the World, and she’ll never forget how powerless she felt. Alduin sealed his death warrant that day. No one, dragon or mortal, harms those under the Listener’s care and lives.

“Listener! _Listen!_ Cicero has just thought of something funny!” He skips alongside Lumen, acting as if taking a stroll through Sovngarde is nothing out of the ordinary. But she knows better. She can sense his nervous energy. “A jester, a necromancer, and a werewolf walk into Sovngarde—” 

Lumen smiles. “Let me guess— Shor appears and says, ‘What is this, some kind of joke?’” 

“How did you know?” Cicero looks distraught for only a moment before his manic cheer is back in place. “Listener! Can you read sweet Cicero’s mind?”

“It was a lucky guess.”

“Terrible jokes are easy to figure out,” Arnbjorn cuts in. “You can do better than that, niblet.”

“Well, at least Cicero is trying! It’s not as if you know any jokes!” 

“I know all kinds of jokes,” he says, smirking. “I just choose not to share them with you.”

“Cicero thinks that tacky armor of yours is a joke.”

Arnbjorn laughs good naturedly despite being the focus of Cicero’s insult, and Lumen attempts to tune them out so she can focus on Shouting the mists away. She is successful, but only for a moment. They are Shouted back by Alduin as soon as she banishes them. While her Voice is little more than a whisper, his is a thunderous roar that resounds across the hillside.

“Ah. That is Alduin, I presume?” Luka asks warily. “I doubt he’s welcoming us.”

“He is not,” Lumen says, unable to ignore the dragon’s challenge and eager to meet it. “But it doesn’t matter. All I hear is the sound of a throat begging to be cut.” 

She is annoyed that a _dovah_ would hide in the fog like a coward. The mist is thick and imposing, and it seems to drain her of her energy when it closes in. She can Shout it away for a time, but even with the worst of it cleared, most of the landscape is obscured.

“Hello?” Calls a voice from the mist. “Who’s there?”

Lumen waits a beat for one of her brothers to introduce themselves, but she sighs when she realizes they expect her to take charge. She is the Dragonborn, after all, and the only reason they are in Sovngarde is because she has a job to do. 

“I’m the Dragonborn,” she says, her voice strong and unwavering. “Just follow the sound of my voice.”

“The Dragonborn? Oh, praise be to the Divines!” A man stumbles out of the mist. He doesn’t look a day over thirty and he is dressed like a noble rather than wearing armor as one would expect. “I’ve been trying to find my way to the Hall of Valor, but I keep losing my way in this mist!”

“Good thing you found us. We are headed that way,” Luka says, curiously looking the man over. “You are dressed rather nice for someone who died in battle.”

The man smiles, but it is a smile etched with a deep sorrow. “One cannot always prepare for their death. I am Torygg, and I am— _was_ the High King of Skyrim until Ulfric Stormcloak sent me here. My death was honorable and I have no regrets, save for one.”

“Does that regret involve leaving your pretty wife behind?” Lumen asks.

“Yes,” he sighs. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” she says with an awkward shrug. “She asked me to look for you when I got here. She misses you, that much I can tell. But we didn’t get the chance to talk for long. General Tullius keeps that poor girl on a tight leash.”

The dead king has no reply to that and Lumen is glad of it. She doesn’t care for his heartache or Elisif’s. It is always a so-called tragedy when a king or a jarl dies, but what about all the men and women that have died in the wake of Torygg’s death? Only a sparse few ever mourn them, while the entire nation is expected to grieve for Torygg. Soldiers are called to avenge his murder and politicians are still arguing about it to this very day! Lumen knows the reasons for the war run deeper than that, it is more than petty revenge. But it is hard not to loathe the people in charge who just let the war continue on rather than actually doing something to stop it.

She exhales roughly, barely able to keep her anger in check. _“Save it for Alduin,”_ she tells herself.

“Cicero is not impressed with this Shor,” he says, his dissatisfaction clear. “A proper god should be able to defend his or her realm of Aetherius from the likes of Alduin.”

“Maybe he can’t. Some legends say that he is dead and the warriors in Sovngarde are awaiting his return,” Luka says as he stoops down to collect some flowers for study. “Others say that he is Sovngarde itself.”

“Shor _is_ here,” Torygg says. “But only the dead can see him. You are not dead, so you will not be able to see him. He’s a Divine and the mere sight of him would be too much for your mortal forms. As for why Alduin is still here— well, I truly cannot say. The other spirits may know, but I do not.”

Arnbjorn grins at Lumen. “Maybe Shor has just been waiting for the Dragonborn of legend to show up and prove herself.”

Lumen snorts, but she refrains from insulting the god within his own realm. Instead, she focuses her attention on a figure in a clearing in the mist, behind him is a bridge that looks like a giant backbone, and beyond that is the Hall of Valor. The man guarding the bridge is the very image of an ideal Nord; enormous muscles, ample amounts of body hair, and ready for a fight while wearing nothing more than a glorified loin cloth and a scowl.

“Who is that?”

“I believe that is Tsun. He’s the Nordic god of trials against adversity,” Torygg explains. “At least— I _think_ that’s him. I’ve never faced him myself, but I’ve heard other spirits speak of him in passing.”

“Damn,” Lumen breathes, looking Tsun over with a newfound appreciation. “Is this what all Nordic gods look like? I might have to convert...”

“Sweetness, _really_.” Cicero frowns at her, while Arnbjorn just laughs. “Do not ogle the god. It is rude.”

Tsun takes a step toward them, his eyes trained on Lumen. “I felt you the moment you appeared here, Dragonborn. You are here for Alduin. We have all been waiting for this moment, when a living Dragonborn enters the land of the dead.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint,” she murmurs. “I seek entrance to the Hall of Valor. I might be the Dragonborn, but I cannot fight Alduin alone. I need help.”

“By what right do you request entry?”

“I’m the Dragonborn,” she says. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No.”

Lumen bites her lip, thinking on how to best answer. He knows she’s the Dragonborn, but he might also know that she has other, darker allegiances. Perhaps he is simply wanting her to say what he already knows.

“Fine, then,” she snaps. “I demand entry right of birth and blood! I am the Dragonborn and I am the Night Mother’s Listener. Let me pass!”

Tsun’s scowl deepens. “You are not welcome here, child of Sithis. But I will not hinder your errand if you can withstand my wrath.”

“Look, I’m not here to kill anyone. It’s Alduin that I’m after!” She tenses up when she sees the god reaching for his axe. Oh, Sithis. Surely he doesn’t mean to fight her! “Be reasonable, man! I don’t want to fight you!”

“Living or dead, by decree of Shor, none may pass this perilous bridge 'till I judge them worthy by the warrior's test.”

“But—”

“Enough!” Tsun roars, running at her and swinging his axe sideways in a move that would have surely decapitated her had she not ducked in time. Her companions step back to allow them room to fight— all but Cicero, who has to be held back by both Luka and Arnbjorn.

“How dare you attack my sweet Lumen!” he shrieks. “Cicero will strangle you with your own entrails if you dare harm a hair on her precious head!”

“Cicero, hush!” Lumen snaps, drawing her daggers and striking low, hoping to finish the fight quickly. She is here for Alduin, not Tsun, and she does not wish to waste her strength fighting him. He is fast, but she is determined to be faster. She is stronger now than she’s ever been in her entire life, and she plans to use every dirty trick she knows to finish the fight quickly.

She stuns him with a Shout and she uses his distraction to her advantage, moving low and fast to strike against his exposed skin. Tsun retaliates with a Shout of his own. They trade blows with their voices and weapons alike until the god begins to weaken, and before long he backs off before he becomes so weak that his attacks grow sloppy.

“You are a worthy opponent, Dragonborn. Akatosh has chosen well.” Tsun’s face still set in a fierce scowl. A worthy opponent she may be, but she is still an assassin and he is ready to be free of her presence. He doesn’t have to say it. The look in his eyes tells her all she needs to know. “You may enter the Hall of Valor.”

Lumen can’t help but smile, feeling a little giddy at a god deeming her worthy. “What about my companions?” she asks. “Can they come with me?”

“They can,” he answers slowly. “But only if they can pass my test.”

“What?” She glances at her brothers, and while they seem eager to fight the god, she notes that Torygg looks mildly terrified at the prospect. “Why?”

“Because it is the law of Shor.”

She knows better than to argue. If Nords are a stubborn lot, then surely their gods are as well. “Do what you need to do,” she says to her brothers, all while desperately trying not to laugh at the sight of the High King shrinking sway. He may have fought a valiant battle against Ulfric, but that didn’t make the man a true warrior. She wonders if he’ll ever make it into the hall.

Her brothers fight Tsun in turn. Each bringing their own unique fighting style, and eventually earning the right to enter the hall. There is something delightfully wrong about four assassins earning the right to enter the Hall of Valor. They are children of the Void, and they were never meant to see this realm.

Lumen soon learns that the real test is not facing Tsun, but crossing the whalebone bridge.

“Wow, fuck my life,” she says, feeling weak in the knees as she stares down into the deep, dark chasm below.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Luka whines. “This is dreadful.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need the help of the Nords in the hall.” Lumen backs away from the bridge. “Nope. No way. I’m done. I’ll just fight Alduin without them.”

A hand on her shoulder stills her. “Take it easy, tidbit,” Arnbjorn murmurs. “I’ll be right there with you.”

She leans into his touch. “That would be so much more comforting if you could actually fly,” she says weakly. “What if I fall?”

“You will not fall. Just take it slow.”

There is no getting around it. She needs to cross that bridge if she’s going to find help, and she needs all the help she can get. “All right,” she says, swallowing hard around a lump in her throat. “One step at a time.”

* * *

The Hall of Valor stands in stark contrast to the land outside. It’s filled with a shining, golden light, and everything within glitters like jewels. There is music, mead, and groups of tall, well-built Nord men and women standing around. They all look over the newcomers with a mix of trepidation and curiosity. One man approaches them, he is taller and broader than the average Nord. It’s hard for Lumen not to feel a little intimidated, even though he looks perfectly friendly.

“Welcome, Dragonborn!” he says, smiling. “I am Ysgramor. It is an honor to finally meet the chosen of Akatosh.”

“Well, um, thanks?” She twirls a stray strand of hair around her fingers, giving her fidgeting hands something to do. His name is as familiar to her as it is to the Nords, but the version of events she was taught by the Thalmor are vastly different than what the Nords get. They are told he is a great hero who drove the elves from Skyrim, but she was taught that he was a barbarian, lesser than an animal, who slaughtered the elves to satiate his bloodlust. It will be interesting to find out which version is true.

“We have heard much about you and your companions. Many are eager to meet you, and many more are eager to test their mettle against you and yours.”

“I’m only here to fight Alduin,” she says, already growing weary of these crazy Nords and their fetish for battle. “I only fought Tsun because I had to. I’m not fighting anyone else and neither are my brothers!”

“I understand, but _you_ must understand that heroes fill these halls. In life, they would have been honorbound to fight one such as you, or die trying. In death, that honor remains.”

Her brothers shift nervously behind her, ready to defend her if needed. “Right,” she grumbles. “So does that mean no one is willing to help me?”

“No,” he says, still smiling and speaking calmly. He motions to three warriors standing nearby. “They see past your affiliation with Sithis and your dark deeds. They stand ready for the Dragonborn’s command.”

Lumen glances at the three warriors, instantly recognizing them from the vision she saw within the Elder Scroll. They don’t look friendly, but they don’t look like they want to kill her either. She’ll take that as a good sign.

“Good,” she says. “I guess we’re ready to go.”

A hand settles on her shoulder. “Should you rest, Miss Lumen?” Luka asks, his brow pinched with worry. “You must be exhausted.”

“I _am_ exhausted. But I won’t be able to sleep and I fear I’ll be worse off for trying.” She offers him a half-hearted smile. “I need my wits about me.”

Sleep sounds wonderful, but there’s no way she will be able to rest with this cold lump of dread growing in the pit of her stomach. Sleep will not come. Peace will not come. Alduin needs to die before the Dragonborn can allow herself to rest. Fate is tugging at her soul, fear is prickling up the back of her throat, and her stubborn will to _survive_ is the only thing keeping her from completely falling to pieces.

She turns around to look at her brothers. To _really_ look at them. Fate brought them all together, and somehow these three vastly different men are endlessly loyal to her. In that moment, she realizes how much she loves them. She really, truly loves them. With them, her life has a new meaning that it never had before. This is what it is like to have friends, to have family, and it is all that keeps her going. She has come too far and gained too much to let Alduin take it away from her now.

Her brothers say nothing, because there is nothing more to say at this point. They only stare back at her, patiently awaiting her command.

“How are you doing?” It may seem like a simple, stupid question. But considering what waits for them beyond the safety of the Hall, it feels like the most important question she’s ever asked. “This has been a whirlwind, hasn’t it? I mean— I still don’t think I’ve entirely come to grips with the fact that we’re no longer on Nirn. It’s gotta be weird for you guys, too.”

“I’m fine, tidbit.” Arnbjorn’s lie is betrayed by the tense set of his shoulders, but Lumen will let it stand.

“Do not worry about me, Miss Lumen,” Luka says, cheerful as always. “This has all been so exciting! I wouldn’t be anywhere else!”

Cicero is difficult to read. His fixed smile has given way to something more serious, something Alduin should fear. His dark eyes bore into hers, a look saying more than words ever will. “Cicero is ready to see this done,” he says, deadly serious. “He is ready when you are.”

“All right, then. Let’s go kill a god.”

* * *

Distantly, Lumen is aware of Felldir and Gormlaith discussing which tactics will work best for fighting Alduin, and Luka is excitedly babbling on to Hakon about something. She knows she should pay more attention to the conversations being had, but her eyes are riveted to the dense fog that rolls over the landscape, hoping to catch sight of the creature skulking within.

“Are you ready, Dragonborn?”

Gormlaith stands beside her, patiently waiting for an answer. Even in death, the woman has weather worn skin and tired eyes, but her smile is warm. She is the most friendly of the three warriors. The men had very little to say to Lumen. They were ready to meet the Dragonborn, but despite what Ysgramor had said, they were not truly prepared to meet an elven assassin. At least Gormlaith does not hold the same prejudices. All she sees is a woman ready to get a job done and she is eager to help.

“I’m ready.”

The Nord warriors Shout the fog away, the strength of their combined voices banshing Alduin’s perilous mist within an instant. A black shadow falls across the ground. Alduin is drawn out of hiding only because _he can no longer hide_. He feels stronger in Sovngarde than he ever felt on Nirn. Lumen doesn’t quite understand how she can feel his aura, only that it might be some “Dragonborn thing” that she’ll never quite understand. She can feel his rage, his hunger, his… _bahlok_ , for lack of a decent Tamrielic term. 

Lumen wishes she could blame the rolling in her stomach on the bilious fog Alduin had thrown over Sovngarde, but it is gone and only her anxiety remains. He is more agile she remembers. Bigger, too. He is more than a simple beast, more than a mere dragon. Black malevolence festers within his heart and his hatred for her sloughs off of him in waves. _“I have faced worse,”_ she tells herself. Because she has. If she could survive the numerous torments Malrian heaped upon her when she was a child, then she can survive Alduin’s wrath. No man or beast or divine creature will ever frighten her quite like he did, and he is _dead_. There is nowhere to run and no reason to. She is not afraid.

“Shout him down!” she commands, and the warriors follow her order. 

Lumen brought Alduin down on her own once, but it was nowhere near as incredible as _this_. Four Shouts rip through the air, the effects of Dragonrend pulling him down hard and fast. He slams into the ground with a pained roar, but he quickly rights himself; snapping, swatting, and breathing fire at anything and everything that moves.

Even grounded, Alduin is a force to be reckoned with. A Shout from him calls flaming rocks that fall from the sky. The rocks hit the ground so hard they bounce in random directions, meaning that no one is truly safe from the barrage. Lumen’s only saving grace is that Luka is nearby, casting wards to keep the mortals safe. The Tongues will have to fend for themselves, but seeing as they are already dead, she sees no reason to concern herself with their safety.

Lumen flinches when a boulder shatters against the ward Luka had thrown in front of her. She curses as the damaged ward winks out of existence. Alduin is impossibly strong and he has Shouts she’s never heard of at his disposal. How do the gods expect her, a mere mortal, to defeat _him_?

It is so easy to lose track of time when one is fighting for their life. The battle seems to go on forever. There is smoke everywhere and Lumen can only Shout between fits of coughing. She cannot see her brothers, but she can hear them. Amid the smoke, there is the strong, metallic tang of blood in the air. The scent sets her teeth on edge. The thought that one of her brothers could be mortally wounded causes her to throw all rational thought aside. All concern for her own well being fades away in the midst of her rage.

“Face me you scaley, fucker!” she roars, running into the smoke. “I’m the one you want!”

The smoke stings her eyes and her lungs burn, but that is not enough to deter her from her doomed task. This dragon will die, even if she has to give her life in seeing it through. She can feel him moving within the thick smog, and just when she thinks she’s getting close she is knocked back by a gust of wind. A great weight slams down upon her before she can stand, knocking all the breath from her lungs..

 _“Los hi ful frin wah dir, Dovakiin?”_ Alduin pins her to the ground with his foot, his sharp talons digging into her armor and puncturing her skin. _“Los daar hin gahvon?”_

Panic grips her when she gasps for air, only to find that she can’t breathe. Her body threatens to break under the unbearable weight of the dragon. Darkness bleeds in from the edges of her vision. It is all she can do to remain conscious. _“I will not die like this!”_ she promises herself. _“I’ve gone through too much to give up now!”_

 _“Dreh ni krif, di mal dovah.”_ The dragon purrs, his hot breath lapping at her skin. _“Gahvon wah zu’u.”_

Her eyes water and her head pounds. Everything _hurts_ —

**_“Fus Ro Dah!!”_ **

Gormlaith’s Shout slams into Alduin, knocking him off balance. He pulls away, his talons scraping away armor and flesh alike as his weight lifts. Lumen breathes in a shuddering, wet gasp. Her exhale comes out in a pained shriek. It feels as if her lungs are full of glass, every breath brings forth a fresh wave of agony, but she _has_ to keep going.

She is aware of Gormlaith standing guard over her prone form, and she is aware that Cicero is nearby, nearly senseless with rage. _“Don’t look,”_ she tells herself. She knows damn well that if she sees her wounds, she will be unable to function. It’s bad. She knows it’s bad. The pain is intense and she can feel blood seeping through the cracks in her armor, but somehow she manages to get to her feet.

Blood dribbles down her legs, splashing across her boots. Something within her abdomen shifts uncomfortably as she takes a step forward, and she just hopes her insides remain _inside_ for the duration of the battle. She’s never been more aware of her own mortality than in this moment, and if she has to die, let it be because she was saving the people she loves.

Lumen spits out a mouthful of blood. _“Hi lost ni kron zu’u!”_ she snarls, even though her voice is little more than a rasp. _“Hi los sahlo!”_

Alduin growls. He may be winning the fight, but a taunt from a wounded foe is still enough to nettle his draconic pride. _“Sahlo?”_ he asks. Within a flash, he snatches Gormlaith up in his jaws, shaking the woman and throwing her somewhere in the distance. _“Zu’u los sahlo?”_

“Yes, Alduin. You are weak,” she says, clutching Dragonbane in her bloody hands. Alduin means to show her the same kindness as Gormlaith, and Lumen is ready for him. Distantly, she can hear her companions running toward her; Cicero shrieking, Arnbjorn cursing her for being a fool, and Luka reciting an incantation for a healing spell.

“I know what I’m doing,” she whispers. Her strength may be waning, but her resolve is still there.

Alduin strikes. Time slows to a crawl as his maw opens to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Acidic saliva is flung from the corners of his mouth. His breath reeks of sulfur and it stings her eyes, but she does not flinch away. She holds Dragonbane aloft, the tip of the blade bumping against the ridges along the top of his mouth as he closes in on her.

 ** _“Krii Lun Aus!”_** she Shouts, and when Alduin falters, when it seems like he might be rethinking his decision of snapping her up, she thrusts her sword up, the razor sharp blade piercing the flesh of his palate. Hot, sticky blood sprays from the wound as the dragon rears back. The tips of his teeth graze against her shredded armor and tangle in her hair before he finally pulls away.

She falls to her knees. There isn’t an ounce of strength left in her. It is a struggle just to keep her eyes open, but she refuses to miss her victory. 

Alduin thrashes wildly. Tendrils of electricity arc across his scales as the enchantments on Dragonbane coarse through his body. He tries to dislodge the sword, but it is for naught. The blade is buried deep within his brain and there are cracks forming across scales. Brilliant light, brighter than the sun, streams through the cracks.

 _“Nid!”_ he cries, his booming voice wavering as his body falls apart. _“Zu’u nis oblaan!”_

“Everything dies,” she gasps. “You are no exception.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” comes Arnbjorn’s voice. He is next to her, his strong hands holding her up, but his voice sounds so far away. As if he is calling to her from across a vast ocean. “That was insane!”

“How much of this blood is yours?” Cicero asks, his tremulous voice as distant as Arnbjorn’s.

She stares past them. The World-Eater is burning in a storm of astral fire, and it is like peering into the heart of a star. Every inch of her vision is set ablaze. She is drunk on power and delirious from her injuries, but she has _killed a god!_ Her vision blurs as tears well up in her eyes. Malrian is dead and Alduin is dying. She has nothing left to fear. There are no more nightmares to chase her from her dreams, no more monsters lurking in the dark corners of her psyche. _She is free_.

There are more voices calling to her now, but they are indiscernible. She wants to tell them that she’s fine and there’s nothing to worry about, but there is no strength left in her to speak. All color is fading to grey. There is copper in her mouth and she cannot seem to draw breath.

Alduin explodes in a flash of blinding light, and Lumen’s vision fades to black.

* * *

A voice is calling to her. It is soft and sweet, like a birdsong carried on the wind. Gentle fingers are stroking through her hair and down to the nape of her neck. Only a mother could possess a touch so loving and so pure. It is a touch that chases away all pain. There is no nightmare, no daedra, no base fear that would dare haunt her when she is safe in her mother’s arms.

Lumen breathes a sigh. The Night Mother’s lap is warm, her deathshroud velvety soft against her cheek. Long, white hair as delicate as spider’s silk flows across the Dunmer’s shoulders. Thin, graceful arms enfold her in an embrace so warm, so full of love, it makes her heart shudder.

“My sweet daughter,” she croons, low and soothing as if calming a wounded child. “You are all right. You are safe now.”

“Am I dead?” She curls her fingers into the rich, obsidian fabric of the Night Mother’s shroud.

“A dream,” Mother says patiently. “You are in a deep sleep and that is why you must wake up. If you do not wake up now, you never will. Your brothers need you. _I need you._ ”

Her body feels so sluggish and heavy, and if she closes her eyes for even a moment, she might slip back into darkness. “I'm not sure if I can,” she says. “I’m so tired of fighting.”

“You must.” The Night Mother’s hand rests upon her chest, just above her heart. “It is not yet your time, my Listener.”

“I will try.” As weak as she is, there is strength to her words. She has so much to live for, it would be a shame if she were to leave it all behind now. The world still needs her. There is a new threat upon the horizon, and while she isn’t sure what the future may bring, she knows that she can face anything as long as her brothers are at her side.

Lumen grips at the fabric of Mother’s shroud, trying in vain to anchor herself to her, begging for another moment of peace. But it is all in vain. One does not ask the Night Mother for more than she’s already offered, and the solid form beneath her cheek fades into a gentle breeze.

* * *

Little by little, Lumen becomes aware of the world around her. She is in a soft bed, there is a pillow beneath her head, and quiet voices at her side. It also feels like she was trampled by a hundred stampeding mammoths, but she is _alive_. Her heart beats steadily and she feels stronger with each breath she takes.

She slowly opens her eyes. The world is a blur of blue and gold that becomes more clear with time. The golden light that she thought was the sun is the glow that seems to surround almost everything in Sovngarde. There are banners and tapestries decorating the walls, priceless treasures placed upon every surface, and there is a chorus of warriors singing a bawdy tune off in the distance.

“Crap,” she sighs. “Am I still in Sovngarde?”

Cicero’s head snaps around at the sound of her voice, and he is instantly at her side. “Welcome back,” he says, and a brilliant smile lights up his face. That smile, as lovely as it is, cannot chase away the lines of worry that etch along his brow.

Arnbjorn appears at the other side of the bed, slipping his hand into hers. There is a tremor to his hand that betrays his fear, but it does not show on his face. His smile is warm and genuine. “You scared the shit out of us, tidbit,” he says, squeezing her hand. “Next time you decide to crawl into a dragon’s mouth, how about letting the rest of us know what your mad plan is?”

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “How long was I out?” She takes a deep breath, feeling the pull of wounds that have yet to heal. The pain has a sobering effect. During battle she was able to ignore the severity of her injuries. But now she is able to take a mental poll of every twinge of pain and every uncomfortable ache. It is a miracle she did not die.

“It’s been three days, Miss Lumen,” comes Luka’s soft voice. 

“You nearly _died_ ,” Cicero says, his words clipped. He curls up beside her, his movements controlled and careful so as not to hurt her. With his forehead pressed against her shoulder, he gives in to a shiver. “There was so much blood. Cicero usually likes the sight of blood, but not when it belongs to his sweet Lumen.”

“To be fair, some of it was Alduin’s,” Luka says, sitting down on the bed and resting his hand on Cicero’s shoulder. “But you did give us quite a scare. Please do not do that again. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

“I was never much of a strategist,” she admits. “I just did what seemed best at the time. I needed a clear shot.”

“It was fucking stupid.” Arnbjorn throws her a sharp glance, his eyes sweeping over the bandages that cover her torso. “But it worked. Alduin is dead and you’re alive. You won, tidbit.”

“I would revel in it if I didn’t hurt so damn much.”

Cicero props himself on his elbow, looking down at her in her nest of blankets and pillows. “You should rest—”

“Don’t go,” she says quickly, grabbing his hand to stop him even though the motion causes her pain. “Stay. All of you have to stay. I don’t want to be alone. This place is _creepy_.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Arnbjorn says with some amusement, as Cicero obediently settles down beside her.

“How much longer am I going to be stuck here, anyway?”

Luka rests against the footboard of the bed, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “Felldir has been healing you and I’ve been seeing to your wounds. You are healing faster than one would expect, but I believe it is due to our location. My own magic is much stronger here than on Nirn, an effect that I will sorely miss when we return home. Nevertheless, I believe you will be up and about within a day or two.”

“Good,” Lumen sighs. “I think it’s time for us to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. Thank you all for being patient. <3 I hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> I have probably butchered the syntax for the Dovahzul. I apologize.
> 
> Translations:  
> Bahlok - hunger, a compulsion driven by wrath or power.  
> Los hi ful frin wah dir, Dovakiin? - Are you do eager to die, Dragonborn?  
> Los daar hin gahvon? - Is this your surrender?  
> Dreh ni krif, di mal dovah. - Do not struggle, my little dragon.  
> Gahvon wah zu’u. - Yield/surrender to me.  
> Fus ro dah! - Force, balance, push.  
> Hi lost ni kron zu’u! - You have not beaten me!  
> Hi los sahlo! - You are weak!  
> Zu’u los sahlo? - You think I am weak?  
> Krii Lun Aus! - Kill, leech, suffer.  
> Nid! - No!  
> Zu’u nis oblaan! - I cannot die!


	46. A Moment's Peace

The urge to leave Sovngarde behind is overwhelming, but Lumen’s poor physical state forces her to remain longer than she would like. Three days pass before she is able to walk without collapsing from exhaustion. On the fourth day she braves a glimpse at the wounds that lie beneath her bandages. She had been avoiding looking for as long as she could get away with it, but now that she is well enough to tend to her own wounds she has little choice. 

She stands in front of a full length mirror, her jaw set. The bandages fall to the floor and her mangled body is bared before her eyes. An impressive array of cuts and bruises are scattered across her body, but such wounds are superficial and will heal without scarring. The worst of the wounds span across her torso. Three angry cuts stretch from her shoulders, across her chest, and to her hips. These wounds will scar and she will bear them for the rest of her life. She is forever marked by Alduin.

A lump forms in her throat. Her body is a _wreck_. Of all the sins she has indulged in, vanity is not one of them. Yet, as she drags the pad of her thumb across the tender, stitched skin of her breast, she cannot help but long for her body to be the way it was.

The bedroom door opens, the golden light of Shor’s hall spills through the crack as Cicero slips inside. “Sweetness, you should have told Cicero you were changing your bandages,” he says, trying (and failing) to not sound irritated. “You do not want to strain your stitches, do you?”

The sob that escapes her is as much a shock to her as it is to him. “Don’t look at me!” she gasps, covering herself with her arms, her stitches pulling. “I look horrible.”

“You look like a dragon chewed you up and spat you out,” Cicero says. “But there is nothing to worry about, my sweet. You will heal.”

How can he be so blithe about this? “But I look—”

“That is enough,” he says, his voice firm enough to silence her. “Cicero will not sit here and tolerate such talk. You have wounds, yes. Wounds heal. You fought a god and you won. Did you think you would walk away unscathed?” His lifts his shirt to reveal a raised, pink scar across stomach. “Besides, we match now! We have matching scars given to us by Alduin. _Who is dead_. Long may he rot.”

“He burned up,” Lumen weakly points out. “He can’t rot.”

“Cicero can dream,” he says, smoothing his shirt down. “Now, let me help you. The sooner you are dressed, the sooner we can return home.”

“Fine.”

Cicero hums quietly as he gently cleans her wounds. “What of Alduin’s soul?” he asks. “You haven’t said anything about it.”

“I—” She is taken aback by the question. He very rarely asks her about the souls she gains when a dragon is killed. She always assumed he was uninterested in the subject. “It’s gone. I don’t have it. Which probably means he’ll return someday and someone else will be named Dragonborn. I can only hope they are more competent than I.”

“You killed him. Only a fool would question your competency at this point.”

“Are you calling me a fool?” 

He is doesn’t respond to her immediately. Instead, he focuses on neatly wrapping bandages around her torso. The soft cloth tugs at her stitches, and it takes all her willpower not to scratch at her healing wounds. Cicero would only swat her hand away and fuss at her for trying.

“I might be,” Cicero finally says. “You should enjoy this victory, sweet Lumen. You have done well.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Cicero is _always_ right.” He grins up at her. “For what it’s worth, Cicero is glad Alduin’s soul is elsewhere. You behave strangely after you capture a soul. The last voice you need in your head is that of a world-eating demigod.”

“Yeah, but think of all that power,” she says, feeling a little disgusted for wanting it so badly.

“What does it feel like when you take a soul?” he asks while leading her to the bed and guiding her to sit. “You have never told Cicero.”

“You never asked,” she says, leaning against him when he sits beside her. “It’s hard to explain. It’s a rush of power and a jumble of memories. I usually can’t interpret much of what I see, though. It’s too much all at once. But the _power_ — I feel like I’m invincible. It’s only for a split-second, but it feels amazing.”

“You might be invincible,” he says quietly. “Or difficult to kill, at the very least. Luka said your wounds would have killed a normal elf, but you pulled through. He thinks the only reason you survived is because you are Dragonborn.”

Lumen swallows hard, vowing never to tell him about how she did almost die, and she is only here by the grace of the Night Mother. If he knew how close she came to death he wouldn’t allow her use the privy without supervision. “Maybe I’m just too stubborn to die,” she says, wishing to lighten the mood.

“That is what Arnbjorn said,” Cicero laughs. 

“How is everyone doing? I’ve only seen Luka when he comes to check on my wounds and I’ve barely seen Arnbjorn at all.”

“Luka has been harassing the spirits here with thousands of questions. Most will not speak to him on account of him being an assassin _and_ a necromancer, but a few of the spirits have indulged him. As for Arnbjorn...” he trails off, not completing the thought.

“What? Has he been _Nording_ it up?”

“Yes and no,” he says. “He is worried about you, but he’s being a typical Nord brute about it. You know, drinking and brooding, and drinking some more.”

Lumen snorts. “If he’s so worried then why hasn’t he come by to see me?”

“What is the matter, sweetness?” He grins at her, clearly enjoying her irritation. “Is Cicero’s attention not enough for you?”

“It’s just stupid, isn’t it?” she continues on, ignoring his teasing. “If he’s so worried then maybe he should come and talk to me. I’m fine, obviously.”

“You are sulking!” he giggles. “Oh, this is cute.”

“It is not cute and I am not sulking,” she snaps, folding her arms across her chest and wincing when the motion sends a twinge of pain through her wounds. “Damn it—”

“Stop that.” Cicero pushes her arms to her sides, casting a worried glance to a growing patch of blood seeping through her bandages. “Cicero shall fetch Arnbjorn for you if you wish to see him so badly.”

“No!”

“No?” He pushes away from the bed and looks down at her with his arms folded. “Why not? You want to see him and I think it would do him some good to see how well you are doing.”

“Because—” she fidgets with her bandages, feeling nervous for no damn reason. “I’m not going to beg for his attention.”

Cicero heaves an exasperated sigh. “This is hardly begging,” he says, rolling his eyes at her. “The mutt has the emotional range of a horker and you would rather suffer than admit you want something. How you two ever came together to form any type of relationship is beyond Cicero’s comprehension.”

“Hey!” She grabs him by the belt with one hand, using the other to put pressure on her stretching wounds. “Just sit down and be nice to me!” she says, hissing in pain. 

“Sithis take me,” he sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “Would you _please_ stop hurting yourself? We are going to be trapped in this Nordic wet dream for an eternity at this rate!”

Lumen can’t contain the giggle that bubbles up in her throat. She claps her hand over her mouth when she notes the twitch in the corner of Cicero’s eye. “You really hate it here, don’t you?” she asks, not sounding the least bit sympathetic.

“Cicero would rather be flayed alive than stay here for another day.”

“Then stop teasing me and help me get my armor on,” she says, grinning at his irritation. “Tsun is sending us home today. I’d rather not make him wait much longer, lest he change his mind.”

“He won’t,” Cicero laughs. “But are you certain you are well enough to do this? Cicero can endure this slow torture for a few more days if you need it.”

“I think I will heal faster once I’m home,” Lumen says. “I’m ready to leave this place behind.”

* * *

Lumen’s send off from Sovngarde is a decidedly rushed affair. Most of the warriors are ready to see the last of her and her brothers, and she is ready to be away from all the chanting and chest-beating. Her job is done. There is no reason to dawdle. Tsun is of the same mind, and his Shout hits the assassins like a whirlwind, flinging them through Aetherius without direction or care.

Being cast from paradise is not as dramatic as the stories describe. One moment she is being buffeted by fierce winds and the next she is lying on the ground, staring up at the stars. Everything around her feels tangible and real. She is cold and everything feels so heavy— from her armor to the breath in her lungs. Everything has a weight to it, which can only mean one thing—

“Ah, Skyrim,” she sighs. “I have missed you.”

She is surrounded by snow, rocks, and… _Dragons_? So many dragons! There is a din of noise all around as they circle overhead, their mingled Shouts create a thunderous roar that rolls through the sky. Some perch on the rocks nearby, but none are making any attempt to attack her or her brothers. They simply observe the mortals who have freed them of their servitude, granting them the choice to be the overlords that Alduin wished them to be, or to follow in Paarthurnax’s footsteps and live a life of peace.

“Wow,” Luka gasps, staring up at the sky. “There are so many of them!”

“Is this a good thing or a bad thing?” Arnbjorn asks warily, his hand reaching for his weapon.

Lumen places her hand on his arm to still him. “It’s okay,” she says, although she does feel a little uncertain about that. It’s not as if she’s ever been surrounded by dozens of dragons before. “They’re not going to attack us.”

With Cicero’s help, she gets to her feet. The dragons eventually depart from the Throat of the World, leaving the four assassins alone with the eldest of them.

“So, it is done,” Paarthurnax rumbles, lowering his head as Lumen approaches him. “He who came before all others and has always been, is no more.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“Alduin was once the crown of our father Akatosh’s creation. You did what you had to do, Dovahkiin. But I cannot celebrate his fall. He was my brother once. This world will never be the same.”

“I’m—” she hesitates, placing her hand on his nose. “I’m sorry, Paarthurnax.”

“No,” he says, nudging his nose against her hand. “It is I who should apologize. I forget myself. Melancholy is an easy trap for a dovah to fall into. You have won a great victory. You should savor this moment, Dovahkiin. This is not the last of what you will write upon the currents of time.”

“What will you do now?” she asks, glancing around at some of the lingering dragons who still circle the mountain top. “Seems like you have plenty of company, at least.”

“I hope to give guidance to the scattered remnants of Alduin’s followers. They may not acknowledge The Way of The Voice, but they will still feel the power of my _Thu’um_.”

“I wish you luck,” she says, stepping back and watching Paarthurnax ascend to fly with the others. 

“I, too, wish the old one luck in this endeavor.” Odahviing crawls down from his perch, his tongue flicking out to taste the air. “I doubt many will wish to exchange Alduin’s lordship for the tyranny of Paarthurnax's Way of The Voice. It will be interesting to see him try.”

“Is that your plan? To watch him and hope he fails?” she asks, tensing up. While she trusts Paarthurnax, she isn't sure how to feel about Odahviing. She just hopes he plans to play nice, she wouldn’t survive a fight with a dragon in her current state.

“I hope for nothing. I will simply observe.” He tilts his head, his crimson scales glittering in the moonlight. “You, however. You have proven yourself twice over. _Thuri_ , Lumen. I gladly acknowledge the power of your _Thu’um_. Call me when you have need and I will come.”

Lumen is struck silent. Of all the things she expected him to say, she did not expect this dragon to pledge his loyalty to her. “I will,” she says a little uncertainly. “Thank you, Odahviing.”

“You may want to check on your _joor_ — the _Greybeards_ ,” he says, spitting to word out like it’s a vile curse. “A group of armed men approached the fortress while you were in Sovngarde.”

“What?!” She shouts, quickly pressing her hand against her abdomen and wheezing in pain. “What happened?”

“I did not venture close enough to find out,” Odahviing admits. “If the Greybeard’s are still alive perhaps they can tell you who their attackers were. You will want to destroy them.”

She laughs even though it pains her. “Destroy them? You know me too well.”

“You are Dovahkiin, are you not? When one’s territory has been encroached upon, a _dov_ must act appropriately.”

“Right.” She turns to her brothers, who have been watching her quietly. “We need to go visit the Greybeards and—”

“Kill them?” Cicero helpfully suggests.

“No! Why would you think that?”

“Poor Cicero can hope,” he sighs. “Cicero has not sent a soul to Sithis in ages. His knives are practically virginal at this point.”

She breathes a laugh. “Oh, trust me, your blades will be wet again, but not with the Greybeard’s blood.” She cannot help but smile as Cicero sulks at that. “The Greybeards were attacked while we were gone and I can only think of one particular group who would do something so stupid. But I want to make damn sure I’m killing the right people when the time comes.”

“You are awfully protective of those old farts,” Cicero comments. “Why not let the pacifists sort it out for themselves?”

“Because, niblet,” Arnbjorn growls, grabbing Cicero by the shoulder and pushing him toward the path that leads down the mountain. “If the Blades are threatening the Greybeards, then it means they are after Paarthurnax.”

Cicero pulls out of his grip. “Cicero understands this,” he snaps. “But Lumen did tell Delphine if she wanted Paarthurnax dead she’d have to do it herself! She did not tell her not to kill him at all!”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Lumen asks, scratching behind her ear. “I didn’t think Delphine would take it so literally.”

“That miserable woman takes everything literally,” Cicero says, sneering. “Can we go now? Cicero does not care one whit about the Greybeards, but he wouldn’t mind warming himself while you sort the old men out.”

“Fine,” Lumen says, motioning for them to follow her. “Let’s go.”

The path down to High Hrothgar is windy and cold, but Lumen and her brothers are too relieved to be back in Skyrim to complain about inclement weather. They travel quietly, fighting their way through blinding snow as Lumen focuses on Shouting the harsh winds away. Luka stays at her side, ready to offer his arm if she falters. It takes all her self control not to lean on him for support. Her wounds are burning and she is exhausted, but she knows she must force herself to do things on her own if she ever hopes to return to her full strength.

“I never thought I would be pleased to see High Hrothgar,” she says, walking faster when the large fortress finally comes into view. “Nor did I ever think I would be glad to be on this fucking mountain with a bunch of dragons, but I think anywhere is better than Sovngarde— uh, no offense to you Nords.”

“Don’t worry about me, tidbit,” Arnbjorn says, a smile in his voice. “You can bitch about Sovngarde all you want.”

“The weather was nice, but those spirits were awfully rude,” Luka says, tugging his cloak around his shoulders. “Do you think you miss anything about it?”

“I’ll miss Tsun’s bare thighs,” she says, while Cicero snorts at her answer.

Lumen ignores any complaints her comment inspires as she opens the door to High Hrothgar— or at least, she _tries_ to. But the door does not budge. “It’s locked,” she says, giving the door another tug. “These doors are never locked.”

“I wouldn’t think the Greybeards would fear the Blades enough to lock their doors,” Luka says, grabbing Lumen’s wrist before she can knock on the door. “You could strain your stitches, dear! Let someone else do it.”

Lumen sighs and drops her hand to her side while Arnbjorn knocks on the door. 

“Are we certain the Blades are the ones who approached the Greybeards?” Cicero casts a wary look about, as if he expects enemies to come crawling out of the snow dunes at any moment.

“Who else would it be?” Arnbjorn asks. 

His question goes unanswered because there is no need to. No one else would be brash enough to openly attack the Greybeards. The Blades see killing Paarthurnax as their duty and they will stop at nothing to see it through, just as Lumen will stop at nothing to protect her own. Whatever Paarthurnax did in his past means nothing to her. He has helped her and now it is her turn to help him. Even the Greybeard’s have given her aid when they did not wish to. After all that has happened, she will not forget the kindnesses they have shown her when the rest of the world saw fit to let her rot.

Anger surges in her chest the longer they wait. The bitterly cold mountain air is nothing compared to the chill of dread that creeps down her spine. What if the Greybeards are dead? Would Delphine really go that far? Would she slaughter a bunch of old men just to get to one dragon? Lumen finds it hard to believe that she would, but she’s seen good people do terrible things in the name of honor.

“This is taking too long.”

“They are rather feeble, Miss Lumen,” Luka says. “It could take them a long time to get to the door.”

“They could be dead.” Cicero steps up to the door and inspecting the lock. “Still, we must pass through High Hrothgar if we wish to go home, right?”

“Right,” Lumen says. “I don’t think there’s a way around it.”

“Then why are the back doors locked if there is no way around it?” Luka asks.

“Perhaps they wish to keep Lumen out,” Cicero laughs, before turning his attention back to the door. “I can pick this lock. It is rather simple.”

“You— have lockpicks?” she asks, an unbidden smile forming on her lips. “You brought lockpicks to Sovngarde?”

“Well Cicero wasn’t going to leave them behind!” he says, grinning at her before turning away to work on the lock. “Besides, you never know when you will need them. Like right now.”

“Admittedly, we would be pretty screwed if he didn’t have those,” Arnbjorn says, watching Cicero with some semblance of approval.

“I’m not complaining. I’m just pleasantly surprised, that’s all.” 

The door is open within a matter of seconds. Warm firelight spills out onto the snow, along with the scent of the incense the Greybeards favor. The heat of a recently stoked fire and the smell of sweet herbs rather than rotting flesh fills Lumen with hope, and she darts through the door, walking as quickly as her wounds will allow.

“Arngeir!” 

“There is no need to shout, Dragonborn,” he says, leaning against a walking stick for support. “I’m right here.”

“I thought you were dead!”

Arngeir breathes an exasperated laugh. “You would do well to learn a little patience. This fortress is quite large and I do not move as quickly as I used to. Still, it is kind of you to care for my wellbeing.”

Lumen casts a look at her companions, all who are in varying states of amusement— all but Cicero. The violent jester will never accept the pacifist Greybeards as anything other than pests. “I was told about a group of armed men approaching the fortress,” she says to Arngeir. “Were they the Blades?”

“Yes,” he says warily. “But there is no reason to retaliate. We turned them away. Paarthurnax will not be harmed.”

“I find it hard to believe that Delphine and her lackeys would turn around and go home just because you told them to.”

“They had little choice in the matter,” Arngeir says. “This fortress is impenetrable, and while we abhor violence, we are not helpless. We would have used the _Thu’um_ to defend ourselves if pressed.”

Lumen folds her arms, letting the news settle in. “They might try again.”

“And we will turn them away again.”

“Perhaps I should speak to Delphine,” Lumen says, more to herself than to Arngeir. “She might listen to me if I tell her to back off.”

“Dragonborn, please,” he pleads. “There is no need to resort to violence.”

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt anyone.” She smiles sweetly, although it does little to reassure him. “I only mean to have a conversation with her. What’s the harm in that?”

Arngeir looks like her wants to tell her all the ways a conversation between two of the most violent women he’s even known could turn out, but he holds his tongue. “I cannot stop you, Dragonborn. You will do as you wish, regardless of my opinions,” he says with a sigh, disapproval thick in his weary voice. “You and your companions are welcome to rest here for the night. I imagine you are exhausted.”

“Do I look that bad?”

He smiles softly, but elects not to answer. “For what it’s worth, I am glad to see you have survived.” The Greybeard says nothing more on the matter. He turns away from the four assassins and retreats to his bedchamber, leaving them to settle in on their own.

Lumen’s rather terse welcome (and subsequent dismissal) by Arngeir does not dampen her good mood. Whether he likes it or not, she _will_ deal with the Blades. If not for the Greybeards safety, then for Paarthurnax. The old _dov_ can take care of himself, but she isn’t going to shy away from the opportunity to have a real conversation with Delphine. No masks. No lies. Just the two of them talking— and if Lumen has to stab her to get her point across, so be it.

* * *

They travel for days, resting on the side of the road rather than finding a room in a major city. Lumen can deal with Arngeir’s disdain, but she does not think she can successfully cope with the hero’s welcome that awaits her in Whiterun. She is tired of politicking. She is tired of doing what everyone else wants her to do just because the gods saw fit to curse her with the _Thu’um_. 

She is _tired_ and she wants to go _home_.

At least home is well within reach. The Black Door is a welcome sight, even if crossing the threshold feels almost surreal. When she last left the Sanctuary, she was prepared to die. She knew Alduin would kill her. Yet, here she is, striding through the candlelit halls of her home, _victorious_.

The arrival of the four, weary companions is met with a cacophony of noise. Babette cheerfully announces their arrival and all but throws herself into Arnbjorn’s arms. Nazir rushes up the stairs and pulls Lumen into a fierce hug that sends a twinge of pain through her body.

“Not so tight,” she gasps, weakly returning the embrace.

“My apologies, Listener.” He takes a step back, but a hand remains resting on her shoulder. “It is good to see you.”

“I missed you too, Nazir.” 

The overlook becomes officially crowded once Cyril and Eola appear to offer their greetings. No one seems to mind that Lumen and her three traveling companions are filthy from days of travel. They are each pulled into crushing hugs before dragged downstairs to the common area. Nazir claims to have been planning a feast and quickly launches into preparing it with Eola’s help. Bottles of ale and wine are passed around the table, and once everyone’s cups are filled to the brim, Cicero begins to tell a highly embellished version of their travels.

For the first time since Alduin’s defeat, Lumen is perfectly at ease. _This_ is what she fought so hard for. 

Her family is a flurry of laughter and chaos. Nazir and Eola trade friendly barbs as they prepare the evening meal, while Cyril watches on in interest. Babette fusses over their injuries and Arnbjorn does his level best to wave her off when she comes to fuss over him. Luka, emboldened by ample amounts of alcohol, has managed to wrap his arms around Cicero. The mage must be whispering something filthy into Cicero’s ear, if the look on his face is anything to judge by. 

Soon, plates of food are passed around the table. A part of Lumen wants to balk at how much food is on her plate, but when she takes her first bite of roast chicken she realizes just how ravenous she is. The chicken is divine; seasoned with oil, salt, and rosemary. It is paired with potatoes, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread.

Arnbjorn settles into a chair next to her. “So have you decided what to do with Delphine?” he asks, drawing the attention of those around them. “Taking her out will be complicated.”

“I have no intention of ‘taking her out.’” Lumen sighs as she leans back in her chair, her belly pleasantly full.

“So we're not killing her, then?” Cicero asks, disappointment written across his features.

“I’m not planning on it,” she says. “I’d just like to scare the shit out of her. If she is stupid enough to challenge me, _then_ I’ll kill her. But I am feeling generous. I’d like to give her a chance.”

“It’s still complicated,” Arnbjorn insists. “Sky Haven is impenetrable— “

“Not to the Dragonborn.”

“It will be surrounded by not only the Blades, but the Forsworn, and if I am not mistaken, Madanach seems very fond of Delphine. He may take issue with you threatening her.”

“Madanach’s love life is not my concern,” Lumen says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We _can_ sneak by a few Blades and Forsworn guards. We’d be shit assassins if we couldn’t!”

“The Listener has a point,” Luka chimes in. “It will be difficult to get passed the Forsworn. They not only use guards, but the camps are fortified with all manner of enchantments, but Eola and I can neutralize them.”

“Right,” Eola says. “Let us worry about the specifics, Listener. We can get you in, no problem.”

“We have time to work out the details,” Lumen says, pressing her hand against her abdomen as she shifts in her seat, desperately trying to find a comfortable position. “I’m not about to face Delphine in this condition. This plan won’t work if she senses weakness.”

“Speaking of which,” Luka stands up and comes round to her side. “I think we ought to get you to bed, Miss Lumen. You need to rest.”

“But—”

“Luka is right,” Cicero says. “Come on.”

As much as she’d love to stay and catch up with her brothers and sisters, as much as she’d love to bask in the Night Mother’s warming presence for just a little while longer, she cannot deny that she is exhausted. “All right,” she concedes, seeing no reason to be contrite for the sake of it. “To bed, then.”

* * *

After bidding her siblings good night, Lumen allows herself to be lead to her chambers— only to discover that her brothers had no plans on actually allowing her to sleep. 

“Oh, for the love of Sithis,” Lumen curses as Luka begins fussing with her bandages. “Just leave it and let me sleep.”

“You cannot sleep in old bandages,” he says. “You might get an infection. How sad would that be? You defeat Alduin only to come home and die of an infected wound!”

“Hah,” she breathes a tired, forced laugh. “Wouldn’t that be a little funny, though? The great and powerful Dragonborn, brought down by a tiny, little infection.”

“No!” They both snap.

“That’s not funny, Miss Lumen!”

“Do not joke about such things when poor Cicero almost lost you once!”

She cringes at their strong reaction and falls silent. Luka huffs irritably while he continues to unwrap her bandages. Dried blood tugs at her skin when the bandages are lifted away, but she does not complain. Because as soon as the bandages are removed, Luka is running a damp cloth across her skin, cleaning away all the itchy, old blood.

“I can do this myself, you know.”

Luka hums an acknowledgement, does he does not give her a true response. “Are you in much pain?”

“I’m learning to live with it,” she says. “Pain is boring. You grow accustomed to it after a while.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’, then.” He winds clean bandages around her body with Cicero’s aid. Once finished, he pulls a small vial of purple liquid from his pocket. “Take this. It’s strong, but it’ll ease your pain and help you sleep.”

“What’s in it?” she asks, taking the vial from his hand and inspecting the liquid. The purple liquid within becomes a deep blue when Lumen shakes the vial, mixing the residue that settled at the bottom with the rest of the potion. “A lady never accepts a drink if she doesn’t know what’s being offered.”

“It’s a mixture of various healing herbs, with a dash of moon sugar and nightshade.”

“Nightshade is toxic.” Her eyes flick from the vial to his. Luka would never harm her, this she knows, but ingesting a poison is a frightening prospect. She’s heard tales of assassins who slowly consume poisons over time so they may grow immune to them, but she’s never gone down that path. It is said that it leads to insanity and she has enough of that in her life already.

“True, but in small quantities it is an effective pain killer.”

She pulls the cork from the vial and holds it close to her nose. The liquid within smells like a field of freshly blooming flowers, with just a hint of something deadly and metallic. “You know,” she begins, feeling the need to tease. “If you and Cicero would like some time to yourselves, you don’t have to drug me to get it.”

Cicero giggles while Luka sputters indignantly. “I would never—”

“I know I’m not your type and that’s all right,” she continues, having too much fun to stop now. “I do have a big, brutish Nord I can cozy up to. So I won’t be lonely, if that’s your concern.”

“Miss Lumen,” he pleads. “I would never drug you, nor would I have the audacity to kick you out of your own bed!”

“Sweetness,” Cicero purrs, coming up beside her and putting a hand on her arm. “Do not tease Luka. He has been working tirelessly to keep you alive.”

“Oh, fine.” She finally brings the vial to her lips, swallowing the potion quickly and wincing at the harsh flavor. “I do thank you for keeping me alive,” she says, her voice a little rough as she reaches out to squeeze Luka’s hand. “I’ll stop teasing you, but at least promise me that you and Cicero will let me watch.”

This time it is Cicero’s turn to fall speechless, while Luka throws his head back and laughs. “Miss Lumen!” he says cheerfully. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Now _that_ is unexpected. “You like an audience?”

“Very much so.”

Lumen smiles at the admission. “That is— interesting.” She collects her robe and throws it around her shoulders with Luka’s help, then she crosses the room and settles into a comfortable chair near the bed. “I seem to have caught my second wind,” she says to their questioning looks. The potion is already easing some of her pain. Her wounds do not itch and pull as badly as before, and her body feels as light as dandelion fluff. 

“You really do need your rest,” Cicero says, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “You are in no shape to—”

“My eyes are perfectly fine,” she interrupts. “I promise I won’t pop a single stitch.”

She watches in rapt attention as Cicero and Luka glance at each other. Perhaps she’s made things awkward, but the tension gathering in the room has little to do with shame and more to do with a desire that has yet to be acted upon. She’s seen them; passing glances, small touches, the occasional kiss, but they have never gone beyond that. Maybe they never found the right time, or maybe they were just waiting on her explicit approval. 

“Well?” Luka gives Cicero a smile that is both shy and confident. “Shall we give the Listener what she wants?” he asks, his voice light and full of good humor. “She did save the world. It would be quite rude to deny her now.”

Cicero’s chuckle rumbles low in his chest, gently unfurling like smoke and sending a jolt of heat straight to Lumen’s core. Were she well enough, Cicero would find himself in the arms of two lovers rather than one. As it is, he’ll have to settle for a voyeur and an enthusiastic mage. Lumen doubts he’ll utter a single complaint.

There is something fascinating in watching two people come together for the first time. Cicero and Luka size each other up before the mage makes the first move. The belt around his waist falls to the floor, followed by his leather vambraces, and his robes, until he is wearing nothing more than a pair of trousers and a smile. Lumen finds herself admiring his physique; there is an expanse of wiry muscle just beneath his smooth skin, and he has the wide, strong shoulders of one who is more accustomed to twirling a staff than hefting a sword. Cicero’s mouth grows tight, barely a flicker of movement, but Lumen is quick to notice it. His eyes are riveted to Luka’s bare chest as he slowly removes his gloves, and only turning away when he places the folded gloves upon the dresser, followed by his hat.

“Nothing to say?” Luka asks, glancing at Lumen and then back to Cicero. “Should I be nervous?”

“No,” Cicero says, his voice steady. With each piece of motley removed, so too is his facade. Here, now, he is more assassin than jester; a fact that is as frightening as it is alluring. Rather than speak, he decides to reassure the mage with actions. His hands travel up Luka’s sides, across his chest and finally to his shoulders. One wraps around the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin as Cicero pulls him down for a heated kiss. 

Lumen bites her knuckle, opting not to provide her own reasons for staying silent. This is not about her. She is to be a mere fly on the wall at this point, and she’ll not participate vocally or otherwise unless asked. It is a relief to not be at the center of attention, to just be a bystander, watching, waiting— _wanting_ , definitely, but she can take care of her own needs if necessary.

With her legs thrown over the armrest of the chair, Lumen settles in for what is promising to be a _very_ interesting night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long it took for me to post a new chapter. I’ve been busy with work - I traveled to four different places within the span of the month, then I got sick, and then I guess I encountered a bit of writer's block because I fought with this chapter so much. But I eventually worked through it!
> 
> I hope to have the next update finished much quicker than this one was. I have a few months off from traveling. I’m a bit busy prepping for some anime conventions in January, but I will find the time to write. :) For those who are curious, I’m not a cosplayer, which is what most people assume when I say I am getting ready for a convention. I’ll be at an artist alley table selling prints, on the spot commissions, and other sorts of goodies. It’s been at least 5 years since I last went to a convention so I’m pretty excited.


	47. Might and Misanthropy

Three weeks pass by in a blur of repetition.

Lumen’s recovery has been slow going. Her injuries are mostly healed, but it is her strength that has taken the biggest blow. Getting her body back to the way it was before Alduin thrashed her to bits requires more patience than she is truly capable of. While she’s been enduring daily training sessions with Arnbjorn, the rest of the family has been preparing to face the Blades. Plans to infiltrate Skyhaven Temple are already in place thanks to the tireless efforts of Luka and Eola— and Cyril, too, although Lumen is loathe to give an Altmer credit for anything.

She rises early these days. There has been a renewed interest in the services her organization offers, and as a result, she often wakes to the sound of the Night Mother's beckoning voice. She enjoys these early mornings when the Sanctuary’s hallways are silent and empty— save for the ever-present chill of Lucien Lachance. The spirit shadows her footsteps as she makes her way to the overlook. He often does this; watches as she Listens. His pitiless eyes consume her with the fervor of a fanatic, eager to know the murderous desires of their matron.

Lumen doesn’t often think about the ghost, because if she thinks about him for too long _he will appear_. He once told her they are bound forever; eternally linked through the Void. Initially she thought he was just being dramatic, but now...

 _Now_ , after visiting Sovngarde, nearly dying, and being brought back by the will of the Night Mother, she knows the Void is something she will never understand. Its reach is farther and more powerful than anyone truly knows. So if Lucien claims his soul is linked to hers eternally, then she would be wise to believe him.

The warmth of the Night Mother’s presence pours over her like a spring rain, chasing away the lingering chill the resident specter left upon her skin. Mother’s voice coils within her ears, singing praises and delivering promises of blood to be spilled. But all too soon, her warmth pulls away, like the tide receding into the oceans, and the icy prickle of Lucien’s aura creeps across her neck once more.

He stands closer to her now. Closer than ever before.

“You’ve changed, Listener,” he says, his voice deep and resonating. 

“Changed how?” she asks, breathless. His very presence is intoxicating. He is a spirit of wrath and a deep, insatiable hunger that she understands all too well.

“You have been touched by the Night Mother,” he says, a dark smile on his lips. “You very nearly crossed over, and because of that, you will carry a piece of the Void within you forever.”

“I don’t feel any different.”

“It’s not something you would notice,” he says, reaching for her hand. “But I do.” 

Lumen grits her teeth at the ghost’s icy touch, but she does not pull away from him. There is no reason to fear him. He is often her silent watcher in the darkness. Never speaking, but always very near. She studies his hand as she ponders this new development. His fingers are transparent, yet she can feel the whisper of callouses bore from a life of wielding daggers.

When Lucien’s hand drops back to his side, she turns away from him to write down the names and locations of the Night Mother’s petitioners. “So, how did you know I nearly crossed over?” she asks, striving for levity, because her heart is hammering so hard she fears it might break free of her chest. “I tried to keep it relatively quiet.”

“I know a great many things,” he says, amusement thick in his voice. “If you ever have questions, my Listener, you have but to ask.”

She blows on the wet ink. “Let’s keep this between us, shall we? My brothers have enough to worry about. They don’t need to know how close I came to dying.”

“I will do as you wish, but let me present this situation in a different light…”

“I’m listening.”

“Never before has our Unholy Matron brought an assassin back from the brink of death. Countless Listener’s died before their time and never once were they guided back to Mundus by the hand of our Lady.” Lucien begins to pace, insofar as a ghost can, his form flickering as he moves. “You would be wise to tell your siblings what happened. There aren’t many who would betray the woman saved by the Night Mother herself.”

“You think someone is going to betray me?” she asks, a little too loudly considering the early hour, but she’s had enough betrayal for one lifetime thanks to Astrid. “Who?”

“The Dark Brotherhood’s past is rife with betrayal. Your reign as Listener has only begun, and it is foolish to think that all you bring into your home will show you the respect and fear you deserve.”

Lumen folds her arms, not liking the sudden swell of fear blooming in her chest. “I have enough to worry about. I don’t need this shit.”

“You have little to fear, Listener. You have my blade. Always.”

“And you have mine.” Lumen whirls around to find Arnbjorn standing near Babette’s alchemy table. Her heart flutters anxiously when their eyes meet. “Always.”

Lucien takes his leave, bowing to Lumen and then flitting back to the Void. “How long have you been there?” she asks, neatly folding the parchment in her hands now that the ink is dry. 

“Long enough to hear the important parts,” he says, pushing away from the wall. “We are all aware of how close you came to death, Tidbit. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are.”

She smiles at that. “I didn’t mention the Night Mother, though.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says. “We know.”

“What do you think about his warnings of betrayal?” she asks, a chill washing over her once again. “Do you think it’s possible?”

“It’s hard to say.” He motions for her to follow him as he walks down the stairs that lead to the common area. “Lucien is a bastion of information as far as the Dark Brotherhood’s history is concerned, but he does not know what the future will bring.”

“Yeah, but history tends to repeat itself.” She drops the list of petitioners on Nazir’s desk before following Arnbjorn to the rotunda.

“Only when the people in charge choose to ignore the events of the past,” he says as he steps into the large circular room that has been designated as a training area. “You have nothing to fear. Everyone in this sanctuary is loyal to you. You made a sacrifice for all of us when you fought Alduin. You didn’t do it for glory. You did it for _us_. No one here is going to forget that.”

Lumen considers his words as she watches him look over the training weapons. Their relationship is built on a shaky trust, yet _something_ has changed between the trials of Skuldafn and Sovngarde. Something is different, and while Lumen is reluctant to put a name to it, she knows that her feelings for Arnbjorn have only grown stronger over time.

“Are you still planning to leave today?” she asks, deciding a change of subject is in order.

“Yes,” he says, tossing a dagger to her. “And you are not going with me.”

She deftly catches the dagger, even though it sends a twinge of pain through her freshly healed muscles. “Why? I can sneak in and out of Solitude unseen.” 

There is a contract out on a thane of Solitude. It is a simple matter of one thane wanting the other dead, and they are able to pay very well. She assigned the contract to Arnbjorn, but Cicero begged to go along, stating that he wished to watch the werewolf at work. To everyone’s surprise, Arnbjorn actually agreed.

“It’s too dangerous,” he says, grabbing a sword and inspecting the dull blade. “I have no doubt that General Tullius was aware of Elenwen’s plan to apprehend you after the peace conference. Considering that failed spectacularly, he’s going to be out for blood.”

“What makes you think he won’t go after you and Cicero?” she asks, feeling left out. “And what makes you think I will be seen at all? It’s a contract! We’ll be sneaking around at night! I don’t see why I can’t go.”

“I think it would be a stupid risk, and Cicero agrees with me.” He crouches into a defensive position, his sword held at the ready. “Now quit stalling and attack me.”

“Is this some sort of male bonding thing? No girls allowed?”

“No,” he snaps. “Attack me.”

“I only have one dagger!”

“Sometimes that’s all you’re gonna have,” he says, rushing toward her and swinging the sword.

Lumen deflects the blow, but the force of the sword bouncing off her dagger sends a wave of pain through her body. He comes at her again, swinging the sword at the perfect level to lop off her head, and she drops down to the ground, hooking her foot behind his ankle. Arnbjorn stumbles, but he is quick to regain his balance. They continue like this for several minutes, trading playful insults and real blows. The sparring match comes to an end with Lumen on her back and his sword at her throat.

“Damn,” she gasps, panting as she lays there in the dirt. “I can never beat you.”

A trickle of blood seeps from a thin cut on his cheek. “You’d be pissed if I let you win,” he says, tossing the sword aside and offering his hand. “Your enemies will give you no quarter, and I would be doing you a disservice if I held back.”

“I’m never going to be able to face Delphine at this rate,” she whines, frustrated with her progress. Or lack thereof.

“Have some patience. You _are_ growing stronger, but it’s going to take a while to completely recover.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Delphine isn’t going anywhere and the Greybeards can fend her off if they need to.”

Lumen huffs her assent, dusting herself off as she stands. The shuffling of feet alerts her to a new presence within the room, and she looks up to see Luka frowning at them.

“Do you two ever get tired of beating the shit out of each other?” he asks, his voice clipped with irritation. “Because I get tired of healing your wounds on a daily basis.”

“I haven’t beat the shit out of her yet,” Arnbjorn says, as if that’s a valid argument. “She has to regain her strength, and all this healing is good practice for you, too.”

“Don’t bring me into this madness,” Luka sniffs as he hands Lumen a letter. “A letter came for you— weeks ago from the looks of it, _and_ it’s been opened and resealed. Miss Lumen, if you don’t mind me asking, why do you have your mail sent to the inn? Surely you have amassed enough gold to purchase a house.”

“I don’t want a house.” She inspects the wax seal. “Did you kill the innkeeper?”

“I threatened to castrate him if he snooped through the Dragonborn’s personal mail again.”

Lumen snorts. “Threats are useless.”

“I threw him over a table and jabbed the tip of a dagger right up against the very bodypart I was threatening to remove.” Luka smiles brightly. “I think he believed me.”

It’s times like this when she remembers why she loves Luka so much. “Did he cry?” she asks, grinning. “Did he piss himself?”

“Both.”

“The kid has a point,” Arnbjorn says, interrupting what was turning into a very pleasant conversation. “You have enough gold to purchase a house, and since your hoard of junk has overflowed into _my_ room, you ought to consider it. If only to have a place to store all your crap.”

“Maybe Miss Lumen is trying to be a proper dragon with her hoard of treasure and all.”

Lumen ignores them, her eyes riveted to the letter. “This is the royal seal of Solitude.” She breaks the seal with her thumbnail and carefully unfolds the parchment. 

~~~

_Lumen Dragonborn,_

_The honorable Jarl Elisif of Solitude requests the pleasure of your company at your earliest convenience._

_Present this letter to the guards are the gate. They will accompany you to The Blue Palace. This letters serves as a temporary stay of arrest, allowing you to enter and leave Solitude unmolested for the duration of a day._

_With regards,  
Falk Firebeard, steward to the jarl._

~~~

“Well—” she hands the letter to Arnbjorn. “It looks like I’ll be going to Solitude whether you and Cicero like it or not.”

“I have a bad feeling about this, Tidbit.”

“So do I,” she admits.

“What are you going to do, Miss Lumen?”

“I’m going to pack,” she says. “I suggest you do the same.”

* * *

Four assassins linger on the side of the road, all staring at the looming gates of Solitude and wondering what kind of reception awaits them. Will they be escorted to the palace as honored guests or carted off to the dungeons? There’s been a bounty on Lumen’s head ever since General Tullius jailed her for killing the Emperor’s decoy. It’s difficult for her to believe Elisif could just wave her hand and make that all go away.

Luka fidgets with the sleeves of his robe. “I still think this is a trap.”

“The pretty jarl does not seem like the type. We passed many guards on our way here and none of them tried to arrest us. Cicero will take that as a good sign.”

“Still,” Arnbjorn says. “We should be cautious.”

Lumen heaves a sigh. Sometimes she misses the threat of Alduin. He gave her a concrete problem to focus on. Now she has to worry about jarls and betrayal. “We’re making the guards nervous,” she says, watching the guards on either side of the gate. Enough worrying. She will make it through this, or she won’t. She is tired of guessing.

“Excuse me.” She approaches the guards with the steward’s letter in hand. “I need to be escorted to the palace.”

One of the guards scoffs at her request. “You have legs,” he snaps. “Escort yourself, elf.”

“I _would_ ,” she says, waving the letter at him. “But I’m the Dragonborn, and seeing as the Empire wants my head on a platter, I cannot go on my own. I require an escort.”

The other guard steps forward, an older man with light brown eyes and an easy smile. “We were told you might show up. You and your friends can come with me.” As if he can see the hesitation in their eyes, he adds, “Don’t worry about the Imperial guards. You'll be safe with me.”

They follow him through the city gates. He stops for a moment to drop a gold piece into the hands of an adolescent boy lingering near the gates. “Take a message to the palace. Tell them the Dragonborn is on her way,” he says, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Be quick about it and there’ll be an extra gold piece in it for you.” The boy gazes at Lumen with wide-eyed curiosity, before nodding to the guard and taking off.

The city looks as it did the last time she was there. The large marketplace is crowded like always, and the occasional bark of laughter or a stray note from a Bard’s lute can be heard over the din of the crowd. Banners are hung along the inside walls and paper flags are strung across the market. People milling about the streets stop to stare at the odd group being escorted by the guard. Cicero tends to draw the eye with his flashy motley, but Lumen cannot place the blame solely on him. None of them are inconspicuous.

She glimpses her reflection in the window of a shop. There had been some debate whether or not she should wear her armor or a dress to court, but after getting a good look at herself, she knows armor is the right choice. _This_ is who she is. Her armor is a perfect marriage of shrouded leather and Daedric armor. The deadly spikes of her pauldrons and vambraces gleam in the sunlight, while the shrouded leather hugs her body, accentuating her feminine curves. A layer of iridescent dragon scales reinforces the leather around her abdomen and thighs. Between the scales and the flare of her pauldrons, she almost looks like a dragon herself.

Arnbjorn made this armor for her to wear as the Dragonborn. They both agreed it would be beneficial to give her a memorable appearance, and what is more memorable than the otherworldly glow of Daedric armor? She has a less flashy set of leathers she wears for Brotherhood work; plain, black leather that is oiled just enough to be supple, but not reflect any light.

They enter the palace through a pair of ornately carved doors that open into a large foyer. Sunlight filters through the windows that line the domed ceiling, filling the room with natural light. A man with red hair approaches them. He must be the jarl’s steward; he is dressed in finely made clothes and his posture is stiff from too many hours of sitting at a desk.

“I have to get back to my post,” their escort says. “It was a pleasure, Dragonborn, and— well, thank you for all that you’ve done.”

Lumen hopes that is not the first of many displays of gratitude, because the words turn her stomach sour. She didn’t save the world for the guard, or for anyone else. She did it for the Brotherhood. For Cicero, Arnbjorn, Luka, and the rest. She did it for the people who would walk into Oblivion if she asked them to. What’s better, is that they would do it with a smile and come out of it laughing.

“Welcome to the Blue Palace, Dragonborn,” the well dressed man says, sketching a quick bow. “I am Falk Firebeard, steward to the honorable Jarl Elisif.”

“Just call me Lumen, if you don’t mind.” She hates referring to herself as the Dragonborn. Sometimes necessity dictates that she must, but in this case, she’d rather be seen as a woman and not a thing. It makes people expect too much from her.

“Of course. Do you have a title or a surname?”

Dragonborn is her title, but… “Ringtree,” she says, her mother’s maiden name feeling foreign on her tongue. “Lumen Ringtree.” There is a strange sense of pride in using that name. It _matters_ to remember who she is versus who she was. That name may belong to her mother’s family, but it belongs to her as well. It is yet another piece of herself Malrian tried so hard to take away from her in order to isolate her. It may take a lifetime, but she will take back every shred of herself he tried to destroy— starting with her name.

And if Elisif plans to jail and execute her, it will be nice to have her real name on her gravestone.

Falk nods, then looks to her companions for their names. They are to be formally announced and it doesn’t sit well with any of them. Arnbjorn and Lumen are the only ones who give their real names. Luka has to settle on a fake name, seeing as his uncle is Ulfric Stormcloak’s right hand man, and Cicero— well, Lumen isn’t sure if the name he gives is fake or not. Imperial’s have a predilection toward obtuse and extravagant names.

The steward guides them up a curved stone staircase. Elisif’s throne room is cozy for such a large room; there is a fire burning in a large hearth, and a welcoming table laden with food and drinks. Guards stand at their posts while the courtiers all turn to stare at the new arrivals. The jarl sits primly on a throne that is too large and imposing for her small figure. 

Falk clears his throat and announces the guests. “Jarl Elisif, may I present Lumen Ringtree, the Dragonborn. She is accompanied by Arnbjorn Whitemane, Luka Frostborn, and—” his voice falters for only a second before he continues, “Lord Cicero Tabitha Pistachio Lysander the Third.”

Behind her, she can hear Arnbjorn whisper, _“Tabitha?”_ but she ignores him in favor of the jarl, who is now beckoning her closer.

“It is a pleasure to welcome you and your companions to my court, Lumen.”

She inclines her head, bowing just enough to be respectful, but not enough to be truly submissive. The jarl can rot if she expects her to kneel. She killed a fucking god, and she kneels for _no one_. “I thank you for your invitation, my jarl, and I apologize for the lateness of my response. I have been recovering from injuries and unable to travel far.”

“There is no need to apologize,” the jarl says, folding her hands on her lap as she regards Lumen and her companions. “I am eager to hear about your adventures in Sovngarde.”

Seeing no way out of it, she tells Elisif everything she can recall. From the trials of Skuldafn, to the portal, to the way Sovngarde was before Alduin’s defeat and after. She tells her of the god, Tsun, and of the spirits she met there— including her husband, which leaves the young jarl with tears glittering in her kohl lined eyes. When her story ends, she dares a glance around the room. Some of the guards look mystified, while some of the nobles look skeptical, as if Lumen would have the gall to stand there and lie about everything she suffered.

Jarl Elisif collects herself, dashing away her tears as she stands. “Thank you for bringing me news of Torygg. It comforts me more than you will ever know.” She steps toward her, grasping her hand and squeezing it tight. “And I just want to thank you— thank _all of you_ for saving us.”

The darkness inside her thrashes wildly at the thought of being a savior. Alduin is dead because he threatened another predator’s prey. When two wolves fight over a flock of sheep, the sheep are not stupid enough to regard the winner as their savior. There is a predatory intent behind every move she makes, and the people of Skyrim would see it if they weren’t so wrapped up in the lie of what she is. But that lie is what keeps her alive. That lie allows her to walk in the daylight without fear. So that is the lie she must continue to weave, even if it insults the very core of who she is.

“I only did what had to be done, my jarl,” comes her quiet response.

The jarl’s smile grows tight when she senses Lumen’s discomfort. She motions for Falk, who places a small scroll in her waiting hand. “This was not easy to obtain,” she whispers as she passes it to Lumen. She then clears her throat, speaking louder when she announces, “Lumen Ringtree, I hereby pardon you of the crimes General Tullius has accused you of.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but how? Tullius was like a dog with a bone. I didn’t think he’d give up.” Probably because she _is_ guilty— but that’s neither here nor there.

“I’d be a pretty poor politician if I couldn’t arrange a pardon for an innocent woman.” Elisif winks at Lumen. “The general has not given up, _per se_. But he cannot ignore the law. The evidence he had against you simply wasn’t substantial enough to maintain a warrant for your arrest.”

“Thank you, Jarl Elisif.” Lumen clutches the small scroll in her hands. Funny, how something so small and fragile can be the difference between freedom or death. “I appreciate this.”

“It’s the least I could do.” The jarl takes a step back, still smiling. “I would like to invite you and your companions to spend the day in my court. I know I am not the only one here who wishes to speak with you.” With that, she snaps her fingers and the room explodes in a flurry of movements. Her steward is instantly beside her, whispering in her ear. A bard strums her lute, while he nobles begin to talk amongst themselves— undoubtedly forming a plan before daring to approach Lumen.

Lumen turns to her brothers, hoping to find solace in their company. But Arnbjorn and Luka are gone in a flash, both eager to take advantage of the free food being offered. But Cicero remains by her side, his arm wrapping around hers.

“You are being entirely too familiar with me, your lordship. People will talk.” 

“What? By doing this?” He squeezes her arm a little. “This is nothing more than polite, friendly affection. Cicero was being _familiar_ with you last night when he had his face between your—”

“Cicero!” she hisses, her face burning like a brand when a noble approaches them.

“Pardon me, er— Lord Cicero, was it?”

Cicero bows with a flourish. “Lord Cicero Tabitha Pistachio Lysander the Third,” he says proudly. “At your service.”

“Right.” The man looks skeptical. “What are your a lord of, exactly? I’ve never heard of you.”

“Oh, just a small town in Cyrodiil,” he says cheerfully.

“Cyrodiil? What brought you to Skyrim?”

“Cicero was curious about the dragons. So he left his life of luxury behind to come and study these strange and marvelous creatures— only to meet the strange and marvelous creature you see standing by his side. Cicero expected to find a great many things here in Skyrim, but he did not expect to find the love of his life.”

The frown eases from the man’s face. “That’s very sweet,” he says, glancing at Lumen. “I’m very happy for you both.”

“Cicero’s wife was not happy about this turn of events,” he says, stifling a laugh. “Oh, no! She threatened to beat poor Cicero for leaving her and the children. But Cicero never really liked his children, anyway.”

“Oh, brother,” Lumen sighs, slipping away from Cicero and the _utterly scandalized_ noble. She doesn’t care what stories he weaves, but she would rather not be in earshot. The table of food next to the servant handing out goblets of wine is a much better place to be. Unfortunately, she doesn’t even make it halfway there before she is accosted.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Dragonborn. The savior of the land. Shall I get down on my knees and grovel?”

Lumen turns around to see where the snide voice is coming from, and she cannot help the wide smile that spreads across her face. Thane Erikur stands before her, half drunk and hostile. How wonderful that she gets the chance to socialize with the man before Arnbjorn kills him later. Thane Bryling told her all she needed to know about him when they were discussing the parameters of the contract. So she knows about his ties to the Thieves Guild, his proclivity for shady, underhanded deals, and his fetish for Bosmeri women.

“I love having a man on his knees,” she purrs, hoping to rile him. “But that will not be necessary.”

His scowl twists into something darker. “You may have had our jarl eating out of your hand, but I don’t buy your story. Alduin was just a fake threat made up by the rebels. Maybe you’ve killed a few dragons. So, what? That doesn’t mean you’re the Dragonborn. You have done nothing but create an extravagant lie.”

“Are you upset because you didn’t think of it first?” 

Erikur barks a surprised, mirthless laugh. “You’re not even going to deny it?”

“What’s the point?” she asks. “I don’t particularly care what you think. You are _no one_ to me.”

He takes a step forward, getting as close as he can without jabbing himself on her armor. “You’d better watch your tongue, girl,” he whispers, his breath rancid with wine. “Or you will find out that I am someone you don’t want to tangle with.”

“ _Ooh_ , tell me more. I’m getting all shivery.” Lumen knows she shouldn’t goad the man. She knows she should keep a relatively low profile. But he’s such an absolute asshole, she just can’t help herself. It doesn’t matter what she says to him, anyway. He’ll be dead by dawn.

He bares his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile, his eyes gleaming with the sadistic lust Thane Bryling had warned her about. It’s why she assigned the contract to Arnbjorn rather than take it herself.

“You’re a little firebrand, aren’t you?” His voice is quiet and clear. It’s obvious he’s well versed in the art of verbally harassing women and not being overheard. “I like that. Your kind are always so biddable. They break easily. But I suppose I have the Aldmeri Dominion’s influence to thank for that. High Elves know a thing or two about control—” Oh, she’s going to have Arnbjorn _skin him alive_ for that one. “But you? You will take some effort to break.”

“What makes you think you’ll have a chance?” she asks, her eyes flicking to where her brothers are. Cicero and Luka are too far away to be able to overhear the wretched things Erikur is saying to her. But there is no doubt in her mind that Arnbjorn overheard thanks to his werewolf senses. The look of undiluted hatred in his eyes is enough to make her heart shudder. 

Lumen walks away from Erikur before he can answer. She doesn’t want to hear it, anyway. Even if she did, it’s not worth triggering Arnbjorn’s shift for the sake of idle curiosity. He is usually so well controlled, but that control slips when the full moon is only a few hours away.

Arnbjorn’s hand comes up to rest on the nape of her neck as she draws near. “Are you all right?”

She leans into his touch. “I’m fine,” she says. “It will take more than some old pervert to rattle me.”

Standing next to Arnbjorn proves to be the best idea she’s had all day. The men and women of the jarl’s court are keen to avoid her when they spot the scowling Nord at her side. It helps that _Lord Cicero_ is the center of attention. He keeps the nobles entertained with highly exaggerated versions of their adventures. Which means no one notices when Thane Erikur leaves unannounced. Nor do they see the skinny, Nord mage shadowing him.

Eventually the day draws to a close, prompting Elisif to dismiss her court. After thanking the jarl for her hospitality, Lumen and her brothers step out into the shadows of another night.

* * *

A heavy mist hangs over the chilly swamps of Hjaalmarch. The night air is thick with the chittering of insects and the scent of rain. Lumen and Luka are perched atop the moss covered roof of an abandoned shack— the very shack Astrid brought her to when she put her through her trial. It is strangely comforting to come back to this place after so long. 

Luka’s arm is slung around Lumen’s shoulders. “Are you pleased you were able to come along, after all?” he asks quietly.

“I knew I’d be able to get my way,” she says, her eyes riveted to Cicero. He stands beneath them with the heel of his boot crammed against the small of Thane Erikur’s back. The man lies face down on the ground, his arms tied behind him. He offers the assassin everything he can think of in exchange for his life. From gold to sexual favors, he throws them all at Cicero’s feet, only to have them kicked back in his face. 

“Please,” Erikur gasps. “There has to be something you want.”

“Cicero wants you to cease your whining,” he snaps, grinding his heel even deeper into the man’s back. “You are giving poor Cicero a headache.”

Erikur whimpers pathetically. “Who sent you? How much are they paying you? I can double it!”

“Are you dumb enough to think we do this for the money?” Cicero asks, his voice colder than death. “There is nothing you can offer me. You are human refuse, _Thane Erikur_ , and the world will be a better place without you in it.”

“You’re a murderer!” he shouts. “If I am refuse, then what does that make you?”

“A festering heap of deep-seated mommy issues,” he counters with a cackle.

“You two are attracting spiders with all that noise,” Arnbjorn says as he shoves the last of his armor into his pack, which he hands to Cicero. Despite being naked, the cold air does not seem to bother him. His pale skin is glistening with sweat and his cheeks are flushed with fever. Were’s tend to run hot on the day of a shift, their body temperature and heart rate rising to that of a wolf. 

Cicero eyes Arnbjorn appreciatively, but he knows better than to make any lewd comments moments before a shift. He’ll store those away for later use. “How much longer?”

“Any minute now,” he says, breathing heavily as the most painful part of his transformation draws near.

A werewolf’s change happens slowly throughout the day in anticipation of the full moon. The organs are the first to transition, which implies there is some intelligence behind the curse. Hircine wouldn’t have any wolves to speak of if their organs shifted as quickly as their bodies, as the shock would surely kill them. Lumen wonders how many men and women died before Hircine got it right.

The transformation is heralded by vomiting when Arnbjorn’s wolf stomach rejects the ale he drank earlier. He braces his hands on his knees when the grip of the moons finally take hold. Sharp, black claws break through his fingertips, and he spits out a mouthful of blood as his canine teeth push the human teeth from their sockets. He doesn’t scream, as Lumen knows she surely would. He only gasps for breath when his bones begin to snap and reform, the muscles beneath his human skin shifting and twisting into something decidedly inhuman. 

Arnbjorn falls to his knees when his skin begins to split. Tears form across his back, his arms, and his legs as white fur, wet with blood, erupts from his flesh. Bit by bit, the human skin sloughs away, revealing the body of a giant white wolf. He shakes the blood from his fur as he steps away from the gory remnants of his humanity.

“Fascinating,” Luka breathes. “When he changes back to a human is the transformation the same?”

Lumen shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him change back.”

The wolf pads over to Cicero and snaps at his hand. “Hey!” Cicero hisses, pulling his hand away. “There are better ways to tell poor Cicero that you are ready for your treat!” 

Arnbjorn growls in response, but he does sit down, waiting patiently for Cicero to release his prey.

“Good boy,” he giggles, only to be growled at again.

“Oh, gods,” Erikur gasps. Dirt cakes the man’s face, clinging to the tears he’d been crying when he watched a man turn into a beast right before his eyes. “Please, let me go! I’ll do anything. _Anything!_ Just name your price!”

The grin that curls across Cicero’s lips is as sharp as any dagger. “I am feeling generous today,” he says, taking a step away from the man. “I will give you a head start, but that is all I can offer you. I’m afraid you are at the mercy of my fluffy friend.”

Lumen watches as Erikur scrambles to his feet, his hands still bound behind his back. Long ago, Babette warned her to never run from one of Hircine’s, as it would attract their attention. It makes sense— a true hunter cannot resist the allure of fleeing prey. But their victim does not know this, and he is stupid with fear. He runs, because that is what his instincts are telling him to do, and the wolf gives chase.

He doesn’t make it far before the wolf is there, his jaws clamping around his ankle, severing tendons and crunching bone before letting him go. The man limps away, babbling hysterically as panic takes hold. Arnbjorn runs circles around him, growling, snarling and snapping— _playing_ with his prey before going in for the kill.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Cicero climbs onto the roof and sits down next to Luka. “Cicero certainly is!”

“How did you survive him?” Lumen asks. The wolf moves so quickly, it’s hard to believe a mere human led him on a chase across Skyrim and actually survived.

“Dumb luck,” Cicero says quietly, clearly wondering the same thing.

After a few moments of herding Erikur, Arnbjorn goes in for the kill. He knocks the man down to the ground and rips his belly open with his sharp teeth. The man’s screams of pain fade into nothing as his lifeblood drains and the wolf begins to feed.

“I didn’t know he ate people,” Lumen says, unable to tear her eyes away. While she has tasted the blood of her victims, and she’s been known to bite when she’s particularly in to a kill, she’s never made a meal of them. 

Cicero laughs. “That’s funny, coming from a Bosmer. Are you saying you’ve never tried it before? Not once?”

“Not all Bosmer follow the Green Pact, as you know. But, no. I’ve never tried it before.”

“Does it bother you?”

She stares at the wolf, who is now looking back at her. He drags his tongue along the side of his muzzle, cleaning away the viscera that clings to his fur. There is something so vulnerable and so very human about the way he is looking at her. She can sense his curiosity— and his fear. Perhaps he is afraid she might reject him now that she’s seen his true nature. 

“No,” she says. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

The wolf gives a slow wag of his tail before turning away and sprinting off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lumen and her friends have a few places to go and people to kill before I can actually wrap this story up. ;) No one's gonna miss Erikur, anyway...
> 
> For Spotify users - I recently made a public playlist of songs that inspire me to write this story. Just do a search for "Causa Mortis" if you're interested. You can add me as a friend on there if you'd like. My username is ariakitty. :)


	48. Coffin Fodder

Skyhaven Temple is cloaked in the gloom of a moonless night. The darkness held at bay by the sparse light of low burning braziers. The limited light provides shelter for the Night Mother’s children, all of whom are perched in various locations around the main hall. They have been in place for hours, all eagerly waiting for the Listener’s signal.

Lumen has to wonder if Delphine can sense her own demise. As paranoid as she is— can she feel the eyes hiding in the shadows? Does she know how close her home is to becoming a charnel house?

The woman in question sits at the head of the large stone table, facing the ancient carvings on the opposite wall. The mural dominates the room; telling a story of triumph and adversity. Three Blades sit with her, all looking over a large marked map. The hum of a quiet conversation fills the room with a strange ambience as their voices echo across the cavernous hall. 

Esbern, the elderly mage, shuffles into the room. His gait made more unsteady by time and ill health, but he still diligently serves the Blades. “A raven came,” he says quietly, his voice straining, as if each word is a great effort. “Orrin’s group has arrived in Falkreath. He had little to report beyond that.”

“What of the dragon?” Delphine asks.

“It was still alive at the time the message was written. Orrin said the hunt was slow going due to bandits in the area.”

“Has there been any word from Rhano’s group?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest. 

“None,” Esbern sighs. “Not one word from his group or the scouts we sent to find them. It’s been weeks, Delphine. They may not return. We need to accept that.”

“I can’t.” Her words come out in a breathless rush. “I can’t accept it until I see it for myself.”

“It isn’t safe,” one of the men says. A Nord, judging by his accent. “There are more dangers than just dragons up north. The rumors of vampires, daedra worshippers, and the bloody Dark Brotherhood are bad enough,” the man snaps, although his anger is not directed at Delphine. “But there is a prison up there. Northwatch Keep. It’s a Thalmor prison. If Rhano and his men strayed too near that prison—”

Delphine curses viciously, her harsh words drowning out whatever the man has to say. “How do you know it’s there?” she asks. A reasonable question, but coming from Delphine it almost sounds like an accusation.

“I was part of a rescue group. Avulstein Gray-Mane hired me and fifteen other men to accompany him to the prison in order to rescue his brother,” he says, his voice shaking. “I was the only one who made it out alive.”

“Show me,” she orders, standing up to get a better look at the map laid out on the table. “Show me where it is on the map.”

“There,” he says, pointing to a location Lumen cannot see. “It’s just north of Volskygge Peak.”

“And we sent them—” her voice falters. “Oh, gods. They were close. _Too close_.”

“Should we arrange a rescue?” a male Bosmer asks. Faendal, if Lumen remembers correctly. “We can’t just leave our men to the mercy of the Thalmor.”

“We don’t have enough manpower to face the Thalmor,” Delphine says, her voice losing some of its earlier strength as the reality of the loss comes crashing down upon her. “I don’t know what to do.”

“We could wait for Orrin to return,” Faendal suggests, his voice quiet. “Or we could ask Madanach for aid. You have done it in the past.”

“It was to keep the Dragonborn alive, seeing as we had a mutual interest in her,” she snarls, no doubt angered by the mere thought of Lumen. “But this? This is Blades business, which is something he wants nothing to do with. If I asked him for help, then he would demand _our_ help, and I will not have my Blades beholden to the Forsworn.”

Faendal’s voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “But we can’t just abandon them.”

“I know.”

Lumen lifts her hand, giving her assassins the silent signal they’ve been so eagerly waiting for. She could not have planned her attack any better. This is the perfect opportunity to kick Delphine while she’s down.

Masked shadows peel from the walls, and the candles flicker wildly in a faint, cold breeze that blows through the temple. The three Blades sitting at the table are disabled first. Cyril materializes from the darkness, slamming Faendal face first on the table, his knee in his back, and weapons tossed just out of reach. Nazir and Eola are there too, showing the Nord and another man the same treatment.

Delphine is instantly on her feet, kicking her chair out from behind her as reaches for her sword. Fire flickers to life in Esbern’s hands, but Luka is there to neutralize the spell. A small cantrip and a sharp blade against his throat is all it takes for the older man’s magic to wink out.

“Who sent you?” Delphine shouts. “What do you want?”

The masked assassins do not answer her, and they do not respond to the useless threats being uttered by the disarmed Blades. They wait silently for their Listener.

“Hello, Delphine.” Lumen saunters out of the darkness with Dragonbane in hand. “We need to talk.”

“ _You_ —” she snarls, leaping forward, her blade held aloft.

Their swords clash, and the cry of steel on steel echoes off the walls of the vast hall. Dragonbane’s enchantments spark wildly against the blade of Delphine’s sword. Lumen can feel the Breton’s rage in the way her arms shake, in the way she tries to overpower her. Months ago, she could have. But now, after training with Arnbjorn, after fighting dragons and _winning_ — Lumen is stronger than she has ever been. This is yet another fight she _will_ win, and if she can’t win it on her own then she’ll cheat. Losing is not an option.

The hall fills with the soft scrape of boots upon stone and the clear, sharp ringing of steel. Lumen’s sword glances off of Delphine thick, metal armor. When she does manage to catch Delphine's sword with her own, the Breton darts forward, her forehead meeting Lumen’s chin with bruising force. Blood fills her mouth as she stumbles backwards. A quick assessment of her injuries tells her that she has a split lip and a cracked tooth, but she’ll worry about those later. Because Delphine is rushing toward her again, bearing down on her like a tempest of rage.

**_“Fus Ro Dah!”_ **

Delphine flies through the air like a ragdoll, slamming hard into the wall on the other side of the hall. The power of her _Thu’um_ reverberates across the temple like an earthquake. Small rocks dislodge from the ceiling and rain down upon them. The Blades murmur in surprise when they realize the Dragonborn is their attacker.

Arnbjorn is the first to reach her, kicking her sword away and offering her a hand up. “We came here to talk. I suggest you listen to what Lumen has to say.”

“Don’t touch me,” Delphine snarls, slapping his hand away as she gets to her feet. Her eyes scan the room, taking in the appearance of the masked, leather-clad intruders, then to Lumen. Only she, Arnbjorn, and Cicero are unmasked. Delphine knows them, so there’s no point in trying to hide their faces. “What is wrong with you? You do realize you can just walk in through the front door, right? Is it necessary to attack me and my men?”

Lumen spits a mouthful of blood at Delphine’s feet. “I had assumed I was no longer welcome here.”

“I am not unreasonable. I will speak with you if it’s necessary.”

“Good.” She is too wound up to stand still, and she begins to pace just to have something to do with all that nervous energy. “Because I want to know why your Blades marched on High Hrothgar.”

“The Greybeards are harboring a dragon who once helped Alduin enslave mankind,” she explains calmly. “By my oath as a Blade, I cannot just ignore what he did.”

“You’re gonna have to!” Lumen snaps, her battle calm giving way to true anger. “It was Paarthurnax who fought beside me when I faced Alduin for the first time! He’s done more for me than you did! If you threaten him or the Greybeards ever again, I swear, the Blades will be little more than a memory of the past.”

“I’m sorry this has come between us, Dragonborn,” Esbern says, not the least bit contrite. “But now that Alduin is dead, Paarthurnax must follow, lest he take up the mantle the World-Eater left behind.”

“You think Paarthurnax was just waiting for Alduin to die so he could take over?”

“Yes,” he says, relieved that she is willing to listen. “I have no doubt that he will attempt to enslave mankind. I do not know when. Probably when you die, because then nothing will stand in his way. There will be no Dragonborn to stop him, and humanity will fall to ruin, suffering under the tyranny of the dragons once more.”

“That’s clever of him,” she says, because it is genius if it’s true. While it is a struggle to see the gentle dragon as a tyrant, she knows just how hard it is to ignore that overwhelming urge to dominate. At least she can distract herself with the trappings of the mortal world. Meanwhile, Paarthurnax has nothing but his own thoughts to keep himself from falling to that temptation.

“Do you not care?” Esbern asks. “Tell me you did not save this world from one dragon, only to let it fall into the clutches of another.”

“I cannot save this world from all possible futures.”

“Then save it from it’s past.”

“No,” Lumen snaps. “I will not see Paarthurnax harmed because of some old man’s paranoia.”

“The Blades ask you for too much, as per usual,” Cicero snarls. “We should kill them and be done with it.”

“Wait,” Delphine gasps. “Let’s make a deal.”

“I’m not really in the mood to make a deal.” Lumen taps her index finger against the hilt of her sword, as if to remind the Blades why she is here, and that she could kill them at any time. “I’m in the mood to get what I want.”

Arnbjorn shifts his foot, his boot scraping against the floor of the temple. The small sound is hardly noteworthy to anyone else, but to Lumen, it is like a pointed cough. _“Hear her out,”_ is his silent suggestion, and it annoys her to no end.

“Just listen to what I have to say first.”

Her eyes meet Arnbjorn’s, and she sighs, relenting. “All right, Delphine,” she growls. “Speak.”

Delphine squares her shoulders, her jaw set. “If you help me rescue my men from the Thalmor, then I will never speak of Paarthurnax again. I swear it.”

Esbern struggles against Luka’s grip. “Delphine!”

“I trust your judgement, Dragonborn,” she says loudly, if only to drown out Esbern’s argument. “If he is as peaceful as you say, then we have no quarrel with him.”

She gapes at Delphine. “Are you fucking kidding me? Five minutes ago you were barking about your oath as a Blade, and now you're willing to look the other way if I rescue your men?”

“I don’t like my choices,” she admits, glaring at Lumen and her siblings. “Maybe Paarthurnax has changed— and maybe he hasn’t. I can live with that uncertainty. But I won’t be able to live with myself if I abandon my soldiers.”

“Delphine, _don’t_ —”

“I can’t do this on my own,” she says, her voice shaking. “And I can’t just leave them. Lumen, please. You know how the Thalmor treat their enemies. I need your help.”

“Dammit, Delphine,” Lumen snarls, sheathing Dragonbane with more force than strictly necessary. “I need a moment.” She steps away from the group, motioning for Cicero to follow her.

Once they are out of earshot Cicero says, “This is more interesting than Cicero expected it to be.”

“I’m not sure what to do,” she admits. “It might be useful to keep Delphine alive. Especially if she owes me a debt.”

“Cicero was thinking the same thing,” he says, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he glances at the group. “The old man has to die, however. Cicero believes he is the mastermind behind this Paarthurnax problem. The Blades may forget about the dragon if Esbern is not around to whisper in their ears. It’ll be an easy job; slip some poison into his wine and he’ll pass peacefully in his sleep. He looks as if he could go at any moment. No one would suspect a thing.”

Lumen murmurs her agreement, and when they turn their attention back to the Blades, they end up stepping in the middle of a rather heated argument.

“—you cannot ignore all the evil Paarthurnax has done just to save a few men!”

“A few men? The Thalmor have at least twenty of our Blades! That’s more than half of us!”

“This is akin to making a deal with Mehrunes Dagon himself!” Esbern snaps, his usual calm demeanor giving way to a seething anger. “Just look at them, Delphine! Tell me they aren’t assassins! Tell me they aren’t killers! They cannot be trusted!”

Delphine turns her gaze to Lumen. The Blade has always been suspicious of her, but to be fair, she’s suspicious of everyone. Now, though, she looks at her with a renewed sense of curiosity. Lumen expects to see hostility there, but there is only a reluctant acknowledgement of the truth. She may not like who she is or what she does, but Delphine can understand why the world needs people like her. 

“You can return to your moral high-ground once your men are rescued,” she snaps. “I will help you, Delphine. But I have some conditions—”

“Paarthurnax is safe,” she says. “You have my word. The Blades will never set foot on that bloody mountain ever again.”

For all of Delphine’s faults, she is a woman of her word. Delphine can be trusted, but what of her men? Lumen has a better grasp of human nature than she, and she knows just how fickle people are. While some of these men are loyal to Delphine, there are certainly a few who hold Esbern in a higher regard— which is all the more reason to kill him.

 _“But if we kill him we run the risk of martyring him,”_ she tells herself. _“What to do… What to do…”_

This no longer interests her. In truth, she’s been distracted ever since she learned of the secret Thalmor prison to the north. She’s of a mind to slaughter the Blades quickly just to be done with it so she can move onto more exciting prey. The command to slaughter them all is sitting on the tip of her tongue when one of the Blades speaks.

“Dragonborn,” Faendal grits out, struggling to talk with Cyril’s knee crammed in his back. “You have my word as well. Paarthurnax will not fall to harm so long as I’m around. I wasn’t even a part of the group that marched on High Hrothgar— I didn’t agree with it.”

“It’s true,” Delphine says, her eyes hard. “A handful of my Blades objected to the mission, and so I allowed them to remain here.”

Lumen grits her teeth and makes eye contact with her assassins. A nod from Eola, a slow blink from Nazir, and so on. Silent conversations pass between the Listener and her siblings, and one-by-one they all consent to the abrupt change in plans. “Okay, Delphine,” she says. “We’ll help you. We will take care of the Thalmor, but you will be responsible for rescuing your men. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Delphine answers, and the assassins release the Blades from their hold. Faendal and the others seem grateful to be free to move their arms again, but Esbern seethes with a silent rage.

“You—” Lumen looks to the Nord who had warned Delphine of the prison. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Argis,” he says, meeting her eyes without a hint of fear. Such an action would normally annoy her, but since they are about to walk into a den of Thalmor, she could do with a few, fearless warriors on her side.

“You’ve been to this prison once before. Do you think you can find it again?” 

“I can.”

“All right, Delphine. Gather your men. We’re leaving within the hour.”

Lumen wishes she had more time to think about this, because she hopes she’s not making a huge mistake. Her siblings have no qualms with the change of plans, and she supposes it is exciting to do something different from time to time. Having Delphine indebted to her isn’t a bad thing, either. Given a little time, she may find a use for Delphine and her Blades.

* * *

They travel along a road that sits in the shadow of the Druadach Mountains, where the air is sweetened with juniper and heavy with the weight of a hundred eyes. Forsworn warriors hide in the shadows of the trees, watching, but never making a move to attack. Night turns to day as the Reach gives way to Haafingar hold. The unlikely allies set up camp just outside of Dragon Bridge. The Blades mutter a few complaints about having to sleep during the day, but eventually their weariness catches up with them and they fall quiet. They resume their travels by eventide.

It is near midnight when the prison finally comes into view. The sky is overcast, blotting out the light of the twin moons and shrouding the snowscape in darkness. Guttering torches frame the main entrance, where a lone guard stands watch. Lumen crouches behind a snow covered boulder, listening to the gilded armor clattering and clanging within the walls of the prison. Her heart is pounding with the thrill of hunting her favored prey. Cicero’s presence is warm at her back, his silence turning into a breathy giggle when Babette stumbles toward the guard.

The vampire is swathed in a threadbare cloak, looking for all the world like a sweet, wayward urchin, and not a bloodthirsty creature of the night. Behind her, the snow sinks in time with Cyril's footsteps. He is shrouded in darkness, hidden from mortal eyes, unless one knows where to look. The guard at the gate pays no mind to the extra set of footprints in Babette’s wake. Instead, he calls to the others to stand down as he approaches the lost child.

“By the Eight,” he hisses when a frigid wind blows by, tossing the powdery snow up into the air. “What in Auriel’s name are you doing out here, child?”

Babette sniffles — quite believably, in Lumen’s humble opinion — and says, “I was traveling with my family, but we were attacked by vampires. My mama and papa didn’t make it. I’m so cold. Can I please stay here? I won’t be any trouble, I promise!”

“We’ll offer no charity to a human anklebiter!” yells an archer. “Get you gone!”

“Twit.” The guard rolls his eyes at the antics of his fellow Thalmor. He kneels down and takes Babette’s hands in his own, inspecting her fingers for frostbite. “You’re as cold as the dead, girl.”

She laughs and lunges forward, her fangs sinking into the guard’s throat. Blood pulses from the wound as she tears into him, and the prison rings with shouts of alarm. When another guard runs from the prison to help his comrade, Cyril casts off his cloak of invisibility and grabs him by the neck. He flings the guard aside with little effort, and he slams into the trunk of a tree with a sickening crack.

Cicero giggles. “Oh, this is _fun_ , we should take them hunting more often.”

A soft grunt is the only response Lumen can give, because her eyes are riveted to the blood pulsing from the guard’s throat. Babette stands above his prone form, wiping her mouth with the back of her arm. 

“Come on,” Lumen says, standing up and reaching for her daggers. “There will be nothing left for us if we don’t hurry.”

The assassin’s move silently, while Delphine and her company make a racket with all their rattling armor and boots crunching in the snow. There is no reason to be silent and stealthy now. The entire prison is in chaos; guards are shouting orders and someone is sounding a rather annoying alarm— Lumen plans to kill that Thalmor first.

Once inside the walls, the assassins spread out across the courtyard, slaying the Thalmor with ease. Cicero’s laugh rings out across the night as a guard’s scream turns into a blood-choked gurgle. Lumen runs up a flight of stairs and along the edge of a crumbling walkway, her eyes set on the Thamor ringing a bell. 

The Thalmor does not notice she is upon him until it’s too late. He pulls fire to his fingers when she grabs him by his long, auburn hair. But the flames sputter out when his head collides with that damnable bell. Even in a dazed stupor, he still manages to snarl out a curse. But Lumen just laughs and slams his head into the metal dome again, and _again_ , until his face is caved in on one side. The Thalmor slumps to the ground, leaving a bloody smear in his wake.

“Do you feel better?” Nazir asks, chuckling as he shakes gore from his sword. 

“Yes,” she huffs, leaping over the edge of the wall and landing in the courtyard. “How many more will be inside? Ten? Twenty?”

It takes Argis a moment to realize she’s speaking to him. “Uh, I did see a few come out of the prison when they heard the commotion,” he stammers, his eyes darting from Lumen to the Thalmor she brained, and back again. “There is a lower level. I don’t know how many will be in the dungeon. Fifteen, maybe. But it’s hard to say.”

“Is there a torture chamber? Oh, why bother asking— _of course_ there is.” She waves her hand to dismiss the question as he turns to address her assassins. “I call dibs on the interrogator.”

“You got it, boss,” Eola says. “How will we know, though? They’re all dressed in the same gaudy, gold armor.”

“The interrogator will likely be the only justiciar on the premises. Save anyone wearing a black robe for me. Incapacitate them if you must, but I’d like to give them their last rites.” She sidles up alongside Delphine and says, “Do us a favor and wait five minutes before coming in. You’re rather loud when you walk.”

Delphine exhales sharply through her nose. “Fine,” she snaps. “Five minutes.”

“Thank you!” Lumen sing-songs, and leads her assassins into the prison.

The prison is less dingy than Lumen expects. The floors are swept clean and the torches are fresh— the work of slaves, no doubt. But it is still a formidable maze of winding corridors designed to confuse any prisoners brave enough to attempt an escape.

They move swiftly through the sloping hallways, their leather soles quiet on the stone. None of the assassins speak; they all communicate with hand signals as to not alert their prey. When they approach a small kitchen, Cicero and Luka slip inside and quietly dispatch of the two off-duty guards within. Arnbjorn takes care of a guard who was sleeping in his bunk, and a giggling Eola surprises a guard in the privy. The assassins move through the prison like a slow, creeping death, quietly felling every guard they come across. It is only when they reach the lower cells do they cast off their guise of silence and fight the guards in earnest.

The fight is fast and brutal. The Thalmor are well trained, but not many can stand against the might of the united Brotherhood. They have spent countless hours training together, and they know the habits of their siblings just as well as they know their own. Cyril knows Luka will reach for lightning and so he calls for ice to aid the spells conductivity. Arnbjorn swings his axe high, as to avoid Lumen and Cicero, who prefer to fight low. Eola and Nazir work as a team, delivering killing blows to fallen guards who take too long to die.

Iron and ozone fill the air with a macabre perfume. The prisoners huddle in their cells, their eyes full of questions— and fear. The clatter of armor heralds the Blade’s arrival, and the tension bleeds out of the prisoners when Delphine enters the cellblock.

Lumen approaches Delphine and says, “We passed a storage room full of armor and weapons. Gather your men and take any supplies you might need. But do it quickly. You will not want to be here for what happens next.”

Delphine, however, is not listening. Because once Faendal pulls the lever to open the cell doors, a Redguard woman stumbles out of her cage and into Delphine’s arms. The woman is filthy. The grit and grime of the prison clings to her skin, and her hair is in tangles. But Delphine doesn’t hesitate for even a second when she cups her face and kisses her fiercely.

“Ahhh. _This_ is why she was so desperate to see her people rescued,” Cicero murmurs. 

“Good,” Lumen says to him, her voice soft so that it will not carry. “Even better, she’s given me a weakness to exploit if she ever reneges on her promise. Esbern is still gonna die, though. Old bastard has it coming.”

“Are you hurt?” Delphine is running her hands over the woman’s arms and sides, dutifully checking for injuries. 

“I’m fine,” the woman sighs. “I just want to go home.”

“Sorcha—”

“I’m fine, Del.” Sorcha tries to smile, but it falters. “I’m just ready to get out of here. I never thought I would escape. I can't bear to spend another moment in this horrible place.”

“All right,” Delphine sighs. “I’ll stop being such a mother-hen. Go get some armor on, we’re leaving as soon as possible.”

Sorcha gives her a little smile. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you for saving me.”

More prisoners approach Delphine, clasping arms and thanking her profusely for the rescue. Lumen hangs back, hoping she and her siblings escape the notice of the Blades. She doesn’t feel a twinge of jealously, because Delphine is doing her a great service by taking the credit. Enough people have lauded her as a hero for killing Alduin, and she’d rather not deal with any displays of gratitude at the moment. She has other things on her mind.

One-by-one, the soldiers greet their leader and file out, eager to be free. Finally, when the last soldier leaves the prison, Delphine turns her attention to Lumen. “Didn’t think you’d want me making a big deal about who you are,” she says, a wry smile twisting her lips. “But I want to thank you, Dragonborn, for helping me. I will not forget this.”

Lumen shrugs. “I’m getting what I want, too.”

“Perhaps,” she concedes, sparing a glance at the fallen Thalmor. “But I’d like to think you are a good person, deep down. You didn’t have to help. You could have killed me, and then come here to kill the rest of the Blades, but you didn’t.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” she growls, while Delphine laughs and roughly pats her shoulder.

“Goodbye, Lumen.”

The clatter of metal bounces off the walls of the prison, and eventually fades into distant memory. Delphine’s words stick with her like an insult that she cannot shake off. _“A good person, deep down,”_ she muses silently. In another life, maybe. This life has made a sadist of her, and she will not apologize for it. 

The assassins take their leave once the Blades have gone, leaving Cicero and Lumen behind. Their siblings are all eager to rifle through the pockets of the fallen and prepare for the journey home. They are all exhausted. Traveling from Dawnstar to Karthspire, then to northern Haafingar within the span of two days has the mortal assassins dragging their feet. Cyril and Babette seem unaffected, but they are eager to retreat to the somber refuge of the Sanctuary.

When they are alone, Cicero hooks his arm around Lumen’s. “Darling,” he purrs. “I have a gift for you— in the torture room.”

“Really?” she asks, surprised. “And here I thought the justiciar got away.”

“He tried,” Cicero giggles. “But stealthy Cicero saw him sneaking away, and _caught_ him!”

He grabs her by the hand and drags her toward a small room near the end of the cellblock. The torture room is a plain, stone room where shadows collect in the corners and the walls resonate with the screams of the damned. The room is bedecked with the blood and entrails of many victims past, giving it the musty stench of rotting meat. 

Lumen’s hungry gaze slides across an Altmer who is bound and sitting on his knees in the middle of the floor. “Hello, precious,” she purrs. “And what is your name?”

“I am Justiciar Vorandil and I urge you to let me go,” he pleads. “My family will reward you handsomely for my safe return!”

“I have no need of gold,” she says, casually inspecting the blood-crusted torture tools at her disposal. “Try again.”

Cicero tuts when he notices the filthy state of the tools. “Play with your toy, my sweet. Cicero will have these cleaned up in a moment.”

The elf’s eyes dart to Cicero, then back to Lumen. “You don’t want gold? Who doesn’t want gold?”

“Me,” she says, her voice growing hard. “Try again, I said.”

“I’ll— I’ll pledge myself to your service! You may do with me what you wish, only please let me live!”

She laughs, even though his foolish words have sent a wave of anger through her. “You are speaking to someone who spent twenty years of her life at the beck and call of a justiciar. I would never consent to such a thing.” She kneels down to look him in the eye. “How many pets do you have?”

“I have paid servants only!” he gasps, tears welling in his eyes. “I would never engage in something so barbaric!”

“Really? Your people don’t seem to think it’s barbaric. One cannot belong to the upper echelons of the Thalmor unless they have at least one human or Bosmer tethered to their hip. So tell me, justiciar — and _do not_ lie this time — how many?”

“Just one,” he says, frustrated. “He’s a Bosmer.”

“What’s his name?” She trails her fingertips across his high cheekbone, brushing hair from his eyes. He is one of the more handsome Altmer she’s played with. His face is perfectly symmetrical, with eyes that are a deep, burnished gold, and his hair is as black as the Void. It’s been years since she got to destroy something so beautiful, and she plans to savor it.

Vorandil’s eyes meet hers. “His name is Buro.”

She freezes, and she is suddenly so angry she can barely speak. “That is Ayleid,” she says slowly. “For _slave_.”

The justiciar openly weeps when he sees the anger in her eyes. Lumen turns away, because the urge to beat him bloody is too strong. But she cannot kill him quickly. Not now.

 _Buro_. Oh, that poor creature. Such terms are reserved for pleasure slaves. He’s probably known nothing but abuse since the day he was sold. Slaves like that aren't equipped for a life of freedom. Most end up on the streets; begging or selling their bodies, and they often end up in the care of even crueler masters. It’s times like this when Lumen realizes that Malrian wasn't the worst of them. There are countless Thalmor who are more callous and cruel than he ever was. 

“You speak the language of the Ayleids?” Cicero asks, not looking away from the task of wiping dried blood from a long, serrated blade. “Cicero did not know this.”

“Malrian taught me a little,” she says, her voice distant. “Most Altmer speak Tamrielic, but they like to weave in little bits of the Ayleid language just so they feel special. Malrian wanted to make sure I would understand what was being said just in case one of his guests spoke ill of him.”

“Too bad for our playmate here.” Cicero casts a dark look at the bound Altmer. “You might have died quickly, but something tells me that is no longer an option for you.”

The justiciar bows so deep his nose touches the floor. “Please, I—”

“Don’t!” She stomps her foot on the ground, and Vorandil flinches at the noise. “I’ve heard enough whining from you!”

“He is awfully soft for an interrogator,” Cicero says, his lip curling in disgust. “I thought he would hold out until we had a blade under his skin.”

“He’s not the first justiciar to start singing before I draw my knife,” she says, nudging the justiciar with the toe of her boot. “I have questions.”

“I will answer them to the best of my knowledge,” he gasps, not daring to look up at her.

She flexes her fingers, the leather padding around her knuckles growing taut. “Why were the Blades kept alive? I expected them to be dead.” 

“The First Emissary ordered it.” He swallows thickly, chancing a glance at his captors before continuing. “She wished to find out where their base of operations was located, and then dump the heads of the remaining Blades on their doorstep. A nod to the beginning of the Great War. It was to serve as a reminder of what we are capable of, and that their presence in Skyrim will not be tolerated.”

“We should do the same with the Thalmor we killed tonight,” Cicero says. “It would serve them right.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” A wicked grin tugs at her lips as she looks to the Thalmor at her feet. “I’m going to let you live. I just need you to deliver a message to your Emissary. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” Vorandil gasps. “I’ll do anything. Just tell me the message and I’ll relay it.”

“Don’t get hasty, now,” she purrs. “I want to make sure the message really sinks in…”

* * *

It is an unusually warm day in Skyrim, especially up in the mountains. But Elenwen will take her blessings as they come, and she will not complain about the sunshine or the clear sky. Even the muddy puddles the melting snow leaves in its wake are a welcome sight.

The weather might be in her favor, but little else is. Malrian, her little brother, is dead. His body had begun to rot by the time Elenwen found him. Rather than remove him and his men from their ship, the Thalmor were forced to send them off in a rather Nordic fashion. It felt insulting to send their boat out into the sea and set it aflame, but it was the only way to dispose of the bodies quickly.

Elenwen didn’t shed a tear for her brother. The First Emissary would not mourn that damn fool. Her brother chose his fate a long time ago when he decided to meddle with that Bosmer wench and her child. There are other matters that require her attention, and she will not waste her time drowning in the past. One such matter is Northwatch Keep. They have lost contact with the prison, and the soldiers she sent there have failed to report back.

“First Emissary,” a guard stands just outside her door, a sheen of sweat across his brow. “There’s been an incident.”

She shuffles the paper on her desk just to give her hands something to do. “What kind of an incident?”

“Forgive me, but—” the guard nervously licks his lips. “It’s Vorandil, ma’am. From Northwatch Keep—”

“I know where I have my men stationed, thank you,” she snaps. “What _is_ it?”

“You should come see for yourself,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. “We need your help. We don’t know what to do. It’s horrific.”

With a sigh, she pushes away from her desk. “Show me, since you are incapable of articulating your thoughts through words.”

The guard winces at her tone, but he nods and leads her through the embassy. She becomes more angry with each step. Northwatch is lost, she doesn’t need an investigation to know that. If Vorandil is here and her guards are so out of sorts, then it means everyone at Northwatch is dead. The thought fills her with weariness. It is getting difficult to call more guards to Skyrim. 

The bright, sunny day stands in stark contrast to the macabre sight that greets her. She finds Vorandil — or what’s left of him — on the front walkway. He is sitting against the railing of the stairs, his head tipped toward the sky, two black pits staring up at nothing. She immediately begins cataloging his wounds; his eyes are gone, and his hands broken beyond repair. His legs are maimed, but he should be able to walk again with adequate healing. She scans his form again and again, not able to figure out where all the blood is coming from. The puddle of blood is too large to have come from the wounds she can see.

“Is he alive?” she asks the nearest guard.

“He’s breathing, but he hasn’t said a word.” The guard hands her a slip of parchment. “This was pinned to his chest.”

_~~~  
We have returned your justiciar as a sign of goodwill. Whether or not he survives depends on how fast you move. Some wounds are more apparent than others. Consider it a test of your healing prowess. _

_Good luck._

_P.S. We left another gift in your courtyard. Enjoy.  
~~~_

Elenwen crushes the parchment in her fist. Fire blooms between her fingers, incinerating the paper and burning her palm. The pain barely registers. It is drowned out amidst the sheer force of her anger.

“Get him inside. Have the healer’s see to him at once.” Her guards rush to obey the command before the sentence if fully formed. “You—” she grabs the guard who came to fetch her from her office. “You’re coming with me.”

The Embassy is as silent as they grave as they move through it. As they pass through the halls, Elenwen motions for more guards to follow her, just in case whatever waits for her in the courtyard is a trap. She feels weary and sick. Someone snuck in right under her nose and left a half-dead justiciar on their front porch, and _something_ in the courtyard. If Elenwen weren’t so understaffed, she’d execute the guards that were on duty. As it is, she needs all the help she can get.

The telltale stench of rotting flesh assaults her nose when she steps into the courtyard. Her mouth waters with the need to vomit, and it is a point of pride that she manages to keep anything down. A cart sits in the middle of the yard with a bloodstained tarp tossed over it. She wonders when this wretched thing appeared. It wasn’t there earlier, she would have seen it — or smelled it — when she left her Solar.

“Remove the tarp,” she says to the guard, her voice steady and strong, despite the protests of her stomach. Who would go this far? Is Malrian’s little beast responsible for this, or is Elenwen giving her too much credit? Is this the work of the Blades? The Stormcloaks? There are too many questions, and not enough answers.

The guard pulls the tarp from the cart, and it’s quarry comes loose with the movement. A few heads hit the ground with a wet thump, the rotting skulls splitting open like overripe melons. Her throat goes tight when a guard wretches in a nearby snowberry bush. Some of these heads are recognizable, and others are not. Between the brutalization of their faces, and the advanced state of decay, she may not be able to identify the whole lot.

“What should we do?” the guard asks weakly. 

“Put those heads back in the cart and burn them,” she orders, not looking away from the gruesome sight. “I’ll send letters to their families at once.”

“Who did this?” another guard asks. “Was it the Stormcloaks?”

“I’ll look into it,” she says, although she doesn’t have a clue where to start. The Blades might be to blame, considering she had their men imprisoned. But this brutality is unlike them. It’s no secret the Thalmor aren’t welcome in Skyrim. The Empire only begrudgingly tolerates their presence, and the Stormcloaks don’t tolerate their presence at all. 

All she can do is wait for Vorandil to wake. If the Thalmor are good at anything, it’s playing the long game. So she will bide her time, and one day soon, she will have her revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially the last chapter. I left it open for a sequel, which is forthcoming! An epilogue + notes are to follow.


	49. Epilogue

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” Lumen whines, her lashes bending against the cloth of her blindfold. “We’ve been at this for _hours_.”

“We are almost there,” Cicero says, patting her on the thigh. “Skyrim is a big country. It takes a while to get from one place to another!”

“You could have waited to put the blindfold on me. It itches.”

“Ah, Cicero does apologize for that. But he promises you, we are almost there!”

The scents of lavender and wheat dance on the breeze, and tease at Lumen’s nose. In the distance she can hear the gentle rumble of a mammoth herd, and she assumes they are somewhere near the southern part of the Pale, if not Whiterun hold itself. Eventually the sounds of the herd fade away, and amidst the gentle padding of Shadowmere's hooves, she can hear the distant rattle of a windmill. 

“We are here, sweet Lumen,” Cicero says, his voice pitched low. “You may remove your blindfold.”

She tugs the scrap of material away from her eyes. “My surprise is a farm?” she asks quietly, more out of habit than any real desire to remain hidden. “Did you purchase a farm? That’s rather _domestic_ of you. Looking to raise some chickens and pop out a few elflets?”

“Do not make poor Cicero laugh!” He tries to muffle a fit of manic giggles. “We need to be quiet! The surprise will be spoiled if a guard comes snooping about.”

Lumen dismounts the horse, her feet hitting the dirt road with a soft thud. She takes in a slow, steadying breath, because she knows this road _and_ this farm. There, just up a sloping hill, is the Loreius farm. That small house has been the site of so many unfulfilled fantasies, and to actually be there now is nearly too much to bear. How many times has she passed by, or very near, and been unable to act on her desires?

Cicero is beside her, nearly bouncing with excitement. “Do you know where we are?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “But why are we here?”

He scratches at the back of his neck. “This is where poor, lonely Cicero first met his sweet Lumen. It is a special place, is it not?” His eyes meet hers, but he is unable to maintain her gaze. “Cicero, thought— Oh, bugger it all. Cicero was never any good at this—”

She places her hand on his cheek, stilling his nervous babbling with a touch. “That was almost a year ago, wasn’t it?”

“It’s been a bit longer than that,” he sheepishly admits. “But when the seventeenth of Last Seed came around, we were dealing with Delphine and her thugs.”

“So this is an anniversary present?” She cuts her gaze to him, and she is inordinately pleased when he bites his lip and looks away. Rarely is Cicero so _shy_. “You’re adorable.”

“Cicero is _not_.” He turns his back to her, and folds his arms tightly over his chest. “Cicero was trying to do something nice for his sweet Lumen, and he does not appreciate being mocked.”

“I’m not mocking you,” she says, pressing against his back and wrapping her arms around him. “What if I honestly think you’re adorable?”

“Kittens are adorable,” he says, but there is no bite to his voice. “Cicero is a bloodthirsty murderer. Cicero is a con-artist and a thief. Cicero is a defiler of virgins—”

Lumen interrupts him with a snort. “Have you ever defiled a virgin?”

“Maybe? That’s not the point! Cicero is wicked and villainous! He is _not_ adorable.”

“I don’t mean it in the ‘cute’ sense,” she whispers, her lips against the shell of his ear. “I mean that I adore you. I mean that you are worthy of worship.” Her hand grazes across the silky velvet of his motley, over his belt and between his legs. That she finds him half-hard doesn't come as a surprise. “You _are_ pretty cute, though.”

“The Listener thinks the Keeper is worthy of worship?” He leans into her touch, gasping when she starts to stroke and tease him. “Go on,” he growls. “Tell Cicero how you plan to worship him.”

Lumen sucks in a hissing breath through clenched teeth. It’s taking all her self-control not to throw him down and have her way with him right there on the road. The only thing stopping her is the knowledge that a guard will be by soon— and Shadowmere would not appreciate _that_ happening right in front of him. As it is, the horse is probably debating who to bite first.

“I want to ride you until you scream.” Rarely is she so blunt. But the killer within her has taken control, and she hasn’t a care for propriety. “And if you’re good and obedient, perhaps I’ll let _you_ tie _me_ up for a change.”

Cicero steps out of her arms, and turns to face her. “Does this mean you like your anniversary gift?” he asks, a deliciously wicked grin curling his lips. “It is a success if it ends in sex, yes?”

She returns the grin, her eyes flicking to the farmhouse on the hill. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” she says quietly. “I’ve thought about it so many times since I saw her, but now that I’m here I don’t know what to do.”

“We do not have to kill the farmer or his pretty wife if you are having a change of heart,” he says, watching her carefully. “There’s a bandit hideout not too far from here. We can sate your bloodlust on more challenging prey.”

“I wouldn’t call this a change of heart.” He throat feels tight, because she’s not used to these odd swells of emotion that keep coming over her. Sometimes she longs for the days where she had only her anger to guide her. But now she’s different. She’s not the same person she was a year ago, or even six months ago. Because now she can laugh and love. She can forgive and she can seek revenge. She can kill and she can show mercy. The shadow that stalked her dreams is gone— dead by her own hand. While Malrian’s death didn’t fix her, something changed the day he breathed his last. She is no longer a slave her to her anger. 

“Tell Cicero what you are thinking.” His fingers curl around hers. “You will find no judgement here.”

“I used to be so angry,” she says quickly. “And sad. I didn’t want to acknowledge it then, but I can admit it now. Hearing the screams of my victims was like— hearing my sorrow structured into sound. I needed it. It felt good to hurt someone. It still does, but it’s _different_ now.”

“How so?” Cicero is gazing up at her, his smile soft and genuine. There isn’t a trace of the jester in sight— or the assassin. She is given a rare opportunity to see the man behind the masks, and she will not squander it. She will not lie to him. Not now. Not ever.

“It’s different because Malrian is dead— and I don’t _need_ to kill the farmer’s wife.” A gentle breeze stirs a nearby field of wheat, and Lumen can feel her anxiety fading away. “I’m in control now.”

“As the Listener should be,” Cicero says, seemingly pleased. “A lack of control will get an assassin killed or caught. You’ve come very far, sweet Lumen, and Cicero is very proud of you. You are in control of that need that drives you, and not the other way around.”

She offers him a half-hearted smirk. “I couldn't have done it without you.”

“Oh, Cicero knows that,” he says with a wave of his hand. “So, what now?”

“I think I’d rather kill someone who truly deserves it.”

“Very well.” He loops his arm in hers as they walk toward Shadowmere. “Is Cicero still getting ridden? He was looking forward to that.”

“Of course,” she laughs, pulling him close. “But _after_ we kill those bandits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was short (sorry!) but necessary. It felt weird tacking it on to the end of the last chapter. So it gets it's own! Anyway, this is it, folks. This is the end. Thank you so much for sticking with me through sporadic updates! Your comments and support kept me going, and I really don’t think I would have finished this monster of a fic if it weren’t for my lovely readers. So I want to thank you, from the bottom of my cold husk of a heart. 
> 
> When I started writing this fic I wanted to tell a story of a ruthless killer who found her humanity through the Dark Brotherhood. I hope I succeeded. Lumen isn’t a good person, nor will she ever be. But she is in control now, and I am proud of her.
> 
> I should have the first chapter of the sequel posted within the month. It's called Fait Accompli, so keep an eye out for it! :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Night's Shadow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952597) by [bakasukebe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakasukebe/pseuds/bakasukebe)




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